[Once I came over Yasha Nalivkin, one of our carters. He worked diligently though evidently forcing himself. Tallow face, pouches under the eyes, tremulous hands. His wife rarely reported for work.
"She is ill!" Yasha used to say.
Well, I called at his hut. Entered and recoiled.]
Six children were lying across a wide bed... Children? Can you really call children those waxen and sodden elderlings? And the mother is sitting nearby gawking at them... Is there anything more horrible?!