Itwassnowingheavily，whichwasapieceofluckforus。PooroldPeterhadnogreatcoat，sowewentintoaJew’sshopandboughtaready—madeabomination，whichlookedasifitmighthavebeenmeantforadissentingparson。Itwasnogoodsavingmymoneywhenthefuturewassoblack。Thesnowmadethestreetsdeserted，andweturneddownthelonglanewhichledtoRatchikferry，andfounditperfectlyquiet。IdonotthinkwemetasoultillwegottoKuprasso’sshop。
Wewalkedstraightthroughthecafe，whichwasempty，anddownthedarkpassage，tillwewerestoppedbythegardendoor。I
knockedanditswungopen。Therewasthebleakyard，nowpuddledwithsnow，andablazeoflightfromthepavilionattheotherend。
Therewasascrapingoffiddles，too，andthesoundofhumantalk。
Wepaidthenegroatthedoor，andpassedfromthebitterafternoonintoagarishsaloon。