Minds in Ferment - Anton Chekov

Minds in Ferment

Anton Chekov

THE earth was like an oven. The afternoon sun blazed with such energy that even the thermometer hanging in the excise officer’s room lost its head: it ran up to 112.5 and stopped there, irresolute. The inhabitants streamed with perspiration like overdriven horses, and were too lazy to mop their faces.
Two of the inhabitants were walking along the marketplace in front of the closely shuttered houses.