Though he had tramped two hundred versts as a beggar, though he was tattered and had grown thin and weatherbeaten, though he had cropped his long hair and was wearing a peasant’s cap and boots, and though he bowed very humbly, Sergius still had the impressive appearance that made him so attractive. But Praskóvya Mikháylovna did not recognize him. She could hardly do so, not having seen him for almost twenty years.

“Don’t think ill of me, Father. Perhaps you want something to eat?”

He took the bread and the money, and Praskóvya Mikháylovna was surprised that he did not go, but stood looking at her.

“Páshenka, I have come to you! Take me in⁠ ⁠…”

His beautiful black eyes, shining with the tears that started in them, were fixed on her with imploring insistence. And under his greyish moustache his lips quivered piteously.