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"I am sorry for Shatov," he said, stopping before Pyotr Stepanovitch again. "Why so? I am sorry, if that's all, and do you suppose..." "Hold your tongue, you scoundrel," roared Kirillov, making an alarming and unmistakable movement; "I'll kill you." "There, there, there! I told a lie, I admit it; I am not sorry at all. Come, that's enough, that's enough."
She fell asleep but still kept his hand in hers; she waked up frequently, looked at him, as though afraid he would go away, and dropped asleep again. Kirillov sent an old woman "to congratulate them," as well as some hot tea, some freshly cooked cutlets, and some broth and white bread for Marya Ignatyevna.
You needn't worry yourselves, he has no prejudices; he'll sign anything." There were expressions of doubt. It sounded a fantastic story. But they had all heard more or less about Kirillov; Liputin more than all. "He may change his mind and not want to," said Shigalov; "he is a madman anyway, so he is not much to build upon."
"You wait a bit, Pyotr Stepanovitch, you wait a bit," he began, with a swaggering emphasis on each word, "it's your first duty to understand here that you are on a polite visit to Mr. Kirillov, Alexey Nilitch, whose boots you might clean any day, because beside you he is a man of culture and you are only foo!" And he made a jaunty show of spitting to one side.
I haven't mentioned Shatov. He was there at the farthest corner of the table, his chair pushed back a little out of the row. He gazed at the ground, was gloomily silent, refused tea and bread, and did not for one instant let his cap go out of his hand, as though to show that he was not a visitor, but had come on business, and when he liked would get up and go away. Kirillov was not far from him.
Lembke listened with attention but with an expression that seemed to say, "You don't feed nightingales on fairy-tales." "Excuse me, though. You asserted that the letter was sent abroad, but there's no address on it; how do you come to know that it was addressed to Mr. Kirillov and abroad too and... and... that it really was written by Mr. Shatov?"
They don't like me because I've turned round... but promise me Shator and I'll dish them all up for you. I shall be of use, Andrey Antonovitch! I reckon nine or ten men make up the whole wretched lot. I am keeping an eye on them myself, on my own account. We know of three already: Shatov, Kirillov, and that sub-lieutenant.
"Anyway, you're not angry with me?" said Stavrogin, holding out his hand to him. "Not in the least," said Kirillov, turning round to shake hands with him. "If my burden's light it's because it's from nature; perhaps your burden's heavier because that's your nature. There's no need to be much ashamed; only a little." "I know I'm a worthless character, and I don't pretend to be a strong one."
She was desperately anxious, moreover, to find out whether what her husband had told her that night in a terrified and frantic whisper, that was almost like delirium, was true that is, whether Pyotr Stepanovitch had been right in his reckoning that Kirillov would sacrifice himself for the general benefit.
There's never been a decent man anywhere." "He's guessed the truth at last! "Ah! Why, you are really in earnest?" Kirillov looked at him with some wonder. "You speak with heat and simply.... Can it be that even fellows like you have convictions?" "Kirillov, I've never been able to understand why you mean to kill yourself. I only know it's from conviction... strong conviction.
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