Explore "Doctor Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
They walked and walked and sang "Memory Eternal,"1 and whenever they stopped, the singing seemed to be carried on by their feet, the horses, the gusts of wind.
Passersby made way for the cortège, counted the wreaths, crossed themselves. The curious joined the procession, asked: "Who's being buried? " "Zhivago," came the answer. "So that's it. Now I see. " "Not him. Her. " "It's all the same. God rest her soul. A rich funeral."