They came out into the street.

“Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna⁠ ⁠… she was all in white⁠ ⁠… she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me.⁠ ⁠… Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don’t know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna’s dead!”

“No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?”

“She died suddenly; and only fancy⁠ ⁠…”

“Afterwards, mamma,” put in Dounia. “He doesn’t know who Marfa Petrovna is.”

“Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don’t know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation.⁠ ⁠… Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what’s the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?”