Fyodor Dostoevsky

misery? You know, men take to drink from grief; well, maybe I am here

from grief. Come, tell me, what is there good here? Here you and I ...

came together ... just now and did not say one word to one another all

the time, and it was only afterwards you began staring at me like a wild

creature, and I at you. Is that loving? Is that how one human being

should meet another? It's hideous, that's what it is!"

"Yes!" she assented sharply and hurriedly.

I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this "Yes." So the

same thought may have been straying through her mind when she was

staring at me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts?

"Damn it all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!" I thought,

almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy to turn a young soul

like that!

It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most.

She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness

that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinising me.

How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep breathing.

"Why have you come here?" I asked her, with a note of authority

already in my voice.

"Oh, I don't know."

"But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It's warm

and free; you have a home of your own."

"But what if it's worse than this?"

"I must take the right tone," flashed through my mind. "I may not get

far with sentimentality." But it was only a momentary thought. I swear

she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And

cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling.

"Who denies it!" I hastened to answer. "Anything may happen. I am

convinced that someone has wronged you, and that you are more sinned

against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it's not

likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination ...."

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