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354CABEZA
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291CANNOT
195CAPITULO
273CAPTAIN
193CARA
167CARACTER
179CARE
136CARRI
250CARRIAGE
338CARTA
1007CASA
359CASE
360CASI
242CASO
534CATALINA
147CAUGHT
143CAUSA
149CAUSE
150CERCA
304CERTAIN
254CERTAINLY
308CHAIR
138CHANGE
221CHAPTER
211CHARACTER
2807CHE
186CHER
344CHILD
360CHILDREN
201CHURCH
133CIERTA
217CIERTO
181CINCO
177CIRCUMSTANCE
140CIUDAD
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196CLEAR
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258CLOCK
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238COLIA
242COM
1412COME
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134COMPANY
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159COMPLETELY
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162COMPRENDO
3609CON
135CONDITION
152CONFESS
152CONMIGO
157CONTINUED
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212CONTRA
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146CONVERSACION
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138CONVINCED
324CORAZON
239CORNER
484COS
623COSA
325COSAS
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703COURSE
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174CREATURE
195CREE
259CREO
768CRIED
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238CRIMEN
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155CROSS
224CROWD
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1. Dostoevsky. The Insulted and Injured (English. Униженные и оскорбленные). Part II. Chapter I
Входимость: 1. Размер: 31кб.
Часть текста: Gogol's midshipman who roared with laughter if one held up one's finger. Mavra, coming out of the kitchen, stood in the doorway and looked at us with grave indignation, vexed that Alyosha had not come in for a good "wigging" from Natasha, as she had been eagerly anticipating for the last five days, and that we were all so merry instead. At last Natasha, seeing that our laughter was hurting Alyosha's feelings, left off laughing. "What do you want to tell us?" she asked. "Well, am I to set the samovar?" asked Mavra, interrupting Alyosha without the slightest ceremony. "Be off, Mavra, be off!" he cried, waving his hands at her, in a hurry to get rid of her. "I'm going to tell you everything that has happened, is happening, and is going to happen, because I know all about it. I see, my friends, you want to know where I've been for the last five days - that's what I want to tell you, but you won't let me. To begin with, I've been deceiving you all this time, Natasha, I've been deceiving you for ever so long, and that's the chief thing." "Deceiving me?" "Yes, deceiving you for the last month; I had begun it before my father came back. Now the time has come for complete openness. A month ago, before father came back, I got an immense letter from him, and I said nothing to either of you about it. In his letter he told me, plainly and simply - and, I assure you, in such a serious tone that I was really alarmed - that my engagement was a settled thing, that my fiancee was simply perfection; that of course I wasn't good enough for her, but that I must marry her all the same, and so I must be prepared to put all this nonsense out of my head, and so on, and so on - we know, of course,...
2. Dostoevsky. A Raw Youth (English. Подросток). Part III. Chapter VIII
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Часть текста: A Raw Youth (English. Подросток). Part III. Chapter VIII CHAPTER VIII 1 As we talked the whole evening and stayed together till midnight, I am not recording the whole conversation, but am only selecting what cleared up for me one enigmatic point in his life. I will begin by saying that I have no doubt that he loved my mother, and though he did abandon her and "break off all relations with her" when he went away, it was, of course, only because he was bored or something of that kind, which is apt to happen indeed to every one on earth, but which is always difficult to explain. Abroad, after some length of time, however, he suddenly began to love mother again, at a distance, that is in thought, and sent for her. I shall be told perhaps that it was a "caprice," but I think differently: to my mind it was a question of all that can be serious in human life, in spite of the apparent sloppiness which I am ready, if you like, to some extent to admit. But I swear that I put his grieving for Europe unmistakably on a level with, and in fact incomparably higher than, any modern practical activity in the construction of railways. His love for humanity I recognize as a most sincere and deep feeling, free from any sort of pose, and his love for mother as something quite beyond dispute, though perhaps a little fantastic. Abroad, in melancholy and happiness, and I may add in the strictest monastic solitude (this fact I learned afterwards through Tatyana Pavlovna), he suddenly thought of mother--to be exact, thought of her "hollow cheeks," and at once sent for her. "My dear," he blurted out among other things, "I...
3. Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment (English. Преступление и наказание). Part one. Chapter Seven
Входимость: 1. Размер: 28кб.
Часть текста: would not obey him, it broke and shook. "I have come... I have brought something... but we'd better come in... to the light...." And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed. "Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?" "Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other day..." and he held out the pledge. The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he thought he would have run away from her. "Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?" he said suddenly, also with malice. "Take it if you like, if not I'll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry." He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor's resolute tone evidently restored her confidence. "But why, my good sir, all of a minute.... What is it?" she asked, looking at the pledge. "The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know." She held out her hand. "But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too? Have you been bathing, or what?" "Fever," he answered abruptly. "You can't help getting pale... if you've nothing to eat," he added, with difficulty articulating the words. His strength was failing him again. But his answer sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge. "What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov...
4. Dostoevsky. The Brothers Karamazov (English. Братья Карамазовы). Part IV. Book X. The Boys. Chapter 1. Kolya Krassotkin
Входимость: 1. Размер: 14кб.
Часть текста: night, and a keen dry wind was lifting and blowing it along the dreary streets of our town, especially about the market-place. It was a dull morning, but the snow had ceased. Not far from the market-place, close to Plotnikov's shop, there stood a small house, very clean both without and within. It belonged to Madame Krassotkin, the widow of a former provincial secretary, who had been dead for fourteen years. His widow, still a nice-looking woman of thirty-two, was living in her neat little house on her private means. She lived in respectable seclusion; she was of a soft but fairly cheerful disposition. She was about eighteen at the time of her husband's death; she had been married only a year and had just borne him a son. From the day of his death she had devoted herself heart and soul to the bringing up of her precious treasure, her boy Kolya. Though she had loved him passionately those fourteen years, he had caused her far more suffering than happiness. She had been trembling and fainting with terror almost every day, afraid he would fall ill, would catch cold, do something naughty, climb on a chair and fall off it, and so on and so on. When Kolya began going to school, the mother devoted herself to studying all the sciences with him so as to help him, and go through his lessons with him. She hastened to make the acquaintance of the teachers and their wives, even made up to Kolya's schoolfellows, and fawned upon them in the hope of thus saving Kolya from being teased, laughed at, or beaten by them. She went so far that the boys actually began to mock at him on her account and taunt him with being a "mother's darling." But the boy...
5. Dostoevsky. Poor Folk (English. Бедные люди). Page 2
Входимость: 1. Размер: 68кб.
Часть текста: about my more recent misfortunes; so often have you expressed an earnest desire to read the manuscript in which (God knows why) I have recorded certain incidents of my life, that I feel no doubt but that the sending of it will give you sincere pleasure. Yet somehow I feel depressed when I read it, for I seem now to have grown twice as old as I was when I penned its concluding lines. Ah, Makar Alexievitch, how weary I am--how this insomnia tortures me! Convalescence is indeed a hard thing to bear! B. D. ONE UP to the age of fourteen, when my father died, my childhood was the happiest period of my life. It began very far away from here- in the depths of the province of Tula, where my father filled the position of steward on the vast estates of the Prince P--. Our house was situated in one of the Prince's villages, and we lived a quiet, obscure, but happy, life. A gay little child was I--my one idea being ceaselessly to run about the fields and the woods and the garden. No one ever gave me a thought, for my father was always occupied with business affairs, and my mother with her housekeeping. Nor did any one ever give me any lessons--a circumstance for which I was not sorry. At earliest dawn I would hie me to a pond or a copse, or to a hay or a harvest field, where the sun could warm me, and I could roam wherever I liked, and scratch my hands with bushes, and tear my clothes in pieces. For this I used to get blamed afterwards, but I did not care. Had it befallen me never to quit that village--had it befallen me to...

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