A good silence descended into the room of the soul, cleansed by the spiders of doubt. One hot afternoon, as he was thinking about these things, the familiar convoy passed by the house. Looking out the window, Tătunu was penetrated to the depths of tenderness and pity. The evening was sifted by spiders, large slanted flakes beating against the convoy. A soldier was carrying a cross on his head. There was no trumpet or priest. Two gravediggers were coming for the cart. The coffin had only one human wood. Then, suddenly, a terrible pity flooded the room of the soul, the canvas of tears descended over his eyes. But as he sat and looked thus, behold, the picture was changed.
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