recollections-she looked at it simply because in all the filthy,
official hall the blue bit of sky was the most beautiful, the purest,
the most truthful object, and the only one that did not try to search
hidden depths in her eyes.

The judges pitied Sergey Golovin; her they despised.

Her neighbor, known only by the name of Werner, sat also motionless,
in a somewhat affected pose, his hands folded between his knees. If a
face may be said to look like a false door, this unknown man closed
his face like an iron door and bolted it with an iron lock. He stared
motionlessly at the dirty wooden floor, and it was impossible to tell
whether he was calm or whether he was intensely agitated, whether he
was thinking of something, or whether he was listening to the
testimony of the detectives as presented to the court. He was not tall
in stature. His features were refined and delicate. Tender and
handsome, so that he reminded you of a moonlit night in the South near
the seashore, where the cypress trees throw their dark shadows, he at
the same time gave the impression of tremendous, calm power, of
invincible firmness, of cold and audacious courage. The very
politeness with which he gave brief and precise answers seemed
dangerous, on his lips, in his half bow. And if the prison garb looked
upon the others like the ridiculous costume of a buffoon, upon him it
was not noticeable, so foreign was it to his personality. And although
the other terrorists had been seized with bombs and infernal machines
upon them, and Werner had had but a black revolver, the judges for
some reason regarded him as the leader of the others and treated him
with a certain deference, although succinctly and in a business-like
manner.