“Yes, I’m ill, and you see, I meant to go for a walk, I⁠ ⁠…” Stepan Trofimovitch checked himself, quickly flung his hat and stick on the sofa and⁠—turned crimson.

Meantime, I was hurriedly examining the visitor. He was a young man, about twenty-seven, decently dressed, well made, slender and dark, with a pale, rather muddy-coloured face and black lustreless eyes. He seemed rather thoughtful and absentminded, spoke jerkily and ungrammatically, transposing words in rather a strange way, and getting muddled if he attempted a sentence of any length. Liputin was perfectly aware of Stepan Trofimovitch’s alarm, and was obviously pleased at it. He sat down in a wicker chair which he dragged almost into the middle of the room, so as to be at an equal distance between his host and the visitor, who had installed themselves on sofas on opposite sides of the room. His sharp eyes darted inquisitively from one corner of the room to another.

“It’s⁠ ⁠… a long while since I’ve seen Petrusha.⁠ ⁠… You met abroad?” Stepan Trofimovitch managed to mutter to the visitor.