Hryhoriy was not hungry and, leaving the boy to breakfast alone, he wandered off to the boarding school. Although this squalid domicile had once been damned on many an occasion, he was still drawn to it, for his best years had passed here, his cold and hungry youth, the years of his hopes and aspirations. It was deserted and quiet here – everyone was in the square, in the city, where the festival was getting into full swing. People would be raging here for three days and three nights, according to custom.
Humble greetings to you, my dear alma mater! Somewhere they said (he had heard about it in Kharkiv), in another yard, a high white dormitory had already been built, made of freshly-hewn timber. He felt sadness and joy. Let the boys luxuriate; dirty water would no longer drip onto their w
