“I don’t understand.”

“My friend, let it be Siberia, Archangel, loss of rights⁠—if I must perish, let me perish! But⁠ ⁠… I am afraid of something else.” (Again whispering, a scared face, mystery.)

“But of what? Of what?”

“They’ll flog me,” he pronounced, looking at me with a face of despair.

“Who’ll flog you? What for? Where?” I cried, feeling alarmed that he was going out of his mind.

“Where? Why there⁠ ⁠… where ‘that’s’ done.”

“But where is it done?”

“Eh, cher ,” he whispered almost in my ear. “The floor suddenly gives way under you, you drop half through.⁠ ⁠… Everyone knows that.”