there's my family...."

After an awkward silence he continued:

"Not a single thing escapes them at our factory, you get humiliated at
every step. They actually search you."

Again he lapsed into silence. Again he complained:

"They force their way into your soul. You can't hold private
conversations.... They stop at nothing."

He told of hunger, he told of a sick old woman. All this was very
touching, but it had lost its freshness by constant repetition--the
pity of it had become, as it were, stamped out. Kiril, indeed, was a
common type, whose state of mind made him valuable as material to be
used up at an opportune moment in the interests of a political cause.

Stchemilov was saying:

"The Black Hundred are organizing. Zherbenev is very busy at
this--he's one of your genuine Russians."

"Kerbakh is with him--another patriot for you," observed Kiril.

"The most dangerous man in our town, this Zherbenev. Vermin of the
most foul kind," said Stchemilov contemptuously.

"I am going to kill him," said Kiril hotly.