Book: Quiet Flows The Don. Page 1

Young happiness always blind...

And that it we know how? While under the heart not prick - go and the district itself does not see...

... on signs, the two men who stole the bride broom, will not receive rejection.

Not azure scarlet color, and dog basileu, duraplane roadside blooms late woman's love.

- What are you, a Bolshevik?
- Nickname nothing to do with it... - mockingly drawl and said Lagutin. - It's not a nickname, but in truth. People really need, and its all horonit, dig. Wish that it had long been dead.

Life will make to understand, and not only force, but force push in any direction.

In life there is no way that all still lived.

I'm talking about England with the same envy which says the street kid, having a mother-slut with a broken nose, about a decent lady - the mother of your random other master.

Here you scientists people always... Discounts, let us make like rabbits in the snow! I, brother, I feel that's where you're wrong Gutara, but to push you can't...

He lived and experienced everything I otite time. Women and girls perelyub, on good horses... Ah!.. trampled Stepa, fatherhood was happy and people were killed, the death went, on a blue sky adorned. What new will you show me life? There is no new! And you can die. Not scary. And in war you can play without risk as the rich. Small loss!

How clumsy seemed the great black father's hands, hugging kids. And to what someone else in this peaceful he looked - the rider, on the day left the horse, saturated with the caustic spirit of militarism and horse sweat.

The smell of the hair of these kids! Sun, grass, warm pillow and something infinitely relatives. And they themselves - this flesh of his flesh, like a tiny Prairie birds...

In the right figure and face was the fading, waning beauty, which brightly illuminates the woman who lived the thirtieth autumn. But in the mocking cold eyes, in the movements she still kept unspent reserve of youth. Her face with soft, attractive in its irregularity features been perhaps the most common. Only one contrast is dramatically evident: a thin dark red cracked, hot lips. She willingly laughed, but her smile betrayed something learned.

The grass is overgrown the grave, old, overgrown pain. The wind licked the traces of the past - time will lick blood and pain, and the memory of those who did not wait for darling and not wait, because human life is short and not much all of us would be trampled grass...