“Yes, he’s clever,” Nikíta continued, admiring the horse. “A Kirgiz horse is strong but stupid. But this one⁠—just see what he’s doing with his ears! He doesn’t need any telegraph. He can scent a mile off.”

Before another half-hour had passed they saw something dark ahead of them⁠—a wood or a village⁠—and stakes again appeared to the right. They had evidently come out onto the road.

“Why, that’s Gríshkino again!” Nikíta suddenly exclaimed.

And indeed, there on their left was that same barn with the snow flying from it, and farther on the same line with the frozen washing, shirts and trousers, which still fluttered desperately in the wind.

Again they drove into the street and again it grew quiet, warm, and cheerful, and again they could see the manure-stained street and hear voices and songs and the barking of a dog. It was already so dark that there were lights in some of the windows.