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Awfully conceited, though. I said to him just now, ‘The Karamazovs are not blackguards, but philosophers; for all true Russians are philosophers, and though you’ve studied, you are not a philosopher—you are a low fellow.’ He laughed, so maliciously. And I said to him, ‘De ideabus non est disputandum.’ Isn’t that rather good? I can set up for being a classic, you see!” Mitya laughed suddenly.
Here, we must note, by the way, one certain fact: he was firmly persuaded that Fyodor Pavlovitch would offer, or perhaps had offered, Grushenka lawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptuary hoped to gain his object for three thousand roubles. Mitya had reached this conclusion from his knowledge of Grushenka and her character.
So if you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to make Lyagavy the offer you’ve made me, he might possibly—” “A brilliant idea!” Mitya interrupted ecstatically. “He’s the very man, it would just suit him. He’s haggling with him for it, being asked too much, and here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property itself. Ha ha ha!”
We parted friends. A fool.... He’s forgiven me.... He’s sure to have forgiven me by now ... if he had got up, he wouldn’t have forgiven me”—Mitya suddenly winked—“only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyitch, damn him! Don’t worry about him! I don’t want to just now!” Mitya snapped out, resolutely.
He knocked the signal the old man had agreed upon with Smerdyakov, twice slowly and then three times more quickly, the signal that meant “Grushenka is here!” The old man started, jerked up his head, and, jumping up quickly, ran to the window. Mitya slipped away into the shadow. Fyodor Pavlovitch opened the window and thrust his whole head out. “Grushenka, is it you?
The lad's heart is breaking, But vain his grief must be, Because he loved a damsel Above his own degree. When all the night is darkened The sun may not appear; And so the pretty maiden. She may not be his dear." MÍTYA. You! LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Only I don't know how to do it in verse, but just plain Russian. MÍTYA. I won't look.
“If you’ll be so kind,” answered Nikolay Parfenovitch. Though Mitya spoke sullenly, it was evident that he was trying more than ever not to forget or miss a single detail of his story. He told them how he had leapt over the fence into his father’s garden; how he had gone up to the window; told them all that had passed under the window.
Nikolay Parfenovitch suddenly got up, and informed Mitya firmly that it was his duty and obligation to conduct a minute and thorough search “of your clothes and everything else....” “By all means, gentlemen. I’ll turn out all my pockets, if you like.” And he did, in fact, begin turning out his pockets. “It will be necessary to take off your clothes, too.” “What! Undress? Ugh! Damn it!
The village of Mokroe numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were asleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled. “Drive on, Andrey, I come!” Mitya exclaimed, feverishly. “They’re not asleep,” said Andrey again, pointing with his whip to the Plastunovs’ inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six windows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up.
“What will the counsel for the defense say?” In another group I heard: “He had no business to make a thrust at the Petersburg man like that; ‘appealing to your sensibilities’—do you remember?” “Yes, that was awkward of him.” “He was in too great a hurry.” “He is a nervous man.” “We laugh, but what must the prisoner be feeling?” “Yes, what must it be for Mitya?”
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