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It was strange and unintelligible. It might have been supposed that giants with immense strides, such as Ilya Muromets and Solovy the Brigand, were still surviving in Russia, and that their gigantic steeds were still alive.
But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh... all his nerves were on edge. "Ilya Petrovitch!" the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not be stopped except by force.
It's a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so." Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand. "I only wanted... I came to see Zametov." "I understand, I understand, and it's a pleasure to see you." "I... am very glad... good-bye," Raskolnikov smiled. He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know what he was doing.
There is a very old story about the son of the peasant Ilya Murometz. After remaining lazily resting in his "isba" for thirty years, he suddenly arose, and began to walk with such fury that the earth trembled. How could these writers conceive the time when this lazy giant would make up his mind to walk?
To what end? Ippolyte Ippolytovich sat in the large, bare dining-room eating chicken cutlets and broth. A napkin was tied round his neck as if he were a child. Vasena fed him from a tea-spoon, and afterwards led him into his study. The old man lay down on a sofa, put his hand behind his head and fell asleep, his eyes half-open. Ilya went to him in the study.
"No, it is anything but clear," Ilya Petrovitch maintained. Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach it....
Here are two: I had just written you, my dear friend Ilya, a letter that was true to my own feelings, but, I am afraid, unjust, and I am not sending it. I said unpleasant things in it, but I have no right to do so. I do not know you as I should like to and as I ought to know you. That is my fault. And I wish to remedy it. I know much in you that I do not like, but I do not know everything.
"Is your master in love with this Marya ... et cetera?" Semyon heaved a sigh. "That young lady is Ilya Stepanitch's undoing. For he is desperately in love with her and can't bring himself to marry her and sorry to give her up, too. It's all his honour's faintheartedness. He is very fond of her." "What is she like then, pretty?" I inquired. Semyon assumed a grave air.
The simple fact is that Ilya Ilyitch shouted in his heat that he wouldn't let one of them come dry out of the water; probably this was the foundation of the barrel legend which got into the columns of the Petersburg and Moscow newspapers.
She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never, never those were her own words make use of that I O U till I could pay of myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?" "All these affecting details are no business of ours." Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely.
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