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Thoma Grigorovich was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them, and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand something about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it.
I had not turned two leaves, when all at once he caught me by the hand, and stopped me. “Stop! tell me first what you are reading.” I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question. “What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovich? These were your very words.” “Who told you that they were my words?” “Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: Related by such and such a sacristan.”
The manuscript was given by a friend to the poet Nekrassov. Kropotkin says that Dostoevski "had inwardly doubted whether the novel would even be read by the editor. He was living then in a poor, miserable room, and was fast asleep when at four o'clock in the morning Nekrassov and Grigorovich knocked at his door.
Thoma Grigorovich had a very strange sort of eccentricity: to the day of his death, he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were times, when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, behold, he would interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognize it.
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