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The Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov6/7/2023 A good thing, the thing that’s brought him here – those words, those signs, each with a profound connection to his life. He feels for the bag slung over his shoulder, mechanically runs his fingers over the hard edges of the rectangle it contains, thickened like scars under the skin, and he remembers, slowly, what’s inside – that heavy, friendly form. He slips on the left one it’s warm and fits him perfectly, as though hand and glove have known each other many years. He stares perplexed at the sturdy boots sticking out from underneath his cassock, at the tattered front of his faded woollen overcoat, at the gloves he’s holding in his hands. He can’t remember rising, or getting dressed, or whether he’s had breakfast. He’s used to getting up at dawn, but today he feels just half awake and has no idea how he even ended up here, alone in an ocean of fog. The vicar forane is standing on the porch of the presbytery, waiting for his carriage. It’s early morning, near the close of October.
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