A sleepy, unkempt doctor, smelling strongly of spirits, was
brought. My father died under his lancet, and the next day, utterly
stupefied by grief, I stood with a candle in my hands before a
table, on which lay the dead man, and listened senselessly to the
bass sing-song of the deacon, interrupted from time to time by the
weak voice of the priest. The tears kept streaming over my cheeks,
my lips, my collar, my shirtfront.
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