“Now that all these Von Lembkes and Karmazinovs.⁠ ⁠… Oh, my goodness, how you have deteriorated!⁠ ⁠… Oh, my goodness, how you do torment me!⁠ ⁠… I should have liked these people to feel a respect for you, for they’re not worth your little finger⁠—but the way you behave!⁠ ⁠… What will they see? What shall I have to show them? Instead of nobly standing as an example, keeping up the tradition of the past, you surround yourself with a wretched rabble, you have picked up impossible habits, you’ve grown feeble, you can’t do without wine and cards, you read nothing but Paul de Kock, and write nothing, while all of them write; all your time’s wasted in gossip. How can you bring yourself to be friends with a wretched creature like your inseparable Liputin?”

“Why is he mine and inseparable ?” Stepan Trofimovitch protested timidly.

“Where is he now?” Varvara Petrovna went on, sharply and sternly.