“A citizen was returning from vacation with an icon. Summer was fading. Dull colors were creeping along the highway, and it was hard to believe that in a week or two the frisky autumn would boil thickly. The bus swayed and shook on the potholes. Slastenov kept straightening his shabby suitcase with his hand, and he, as if on purpose, puffing out his sides, crawled back or nailed himself to the next chair...”