“He’s one of us; one of us!” Liputin’s voice squealed near by. “It’s Mr. G⁠⸺⁠v, a young man of classical education, in touch with the highest society.”

“I love him if he’s in society, clas‑si⁠ ⁠… that means he’s high‑ly ed‑u‑cated. The retired Captain Ignat Lebyadkin, at the service of the world and his friends⁠ ⁠… if they’re true ones, if they’re true ones, the scoundrels.”

Captain Lebyadkin, a stout, fleshy man over six feet in height, with curly hair and a red face, was so extremely drunk that he could scarcely stand up before me, and articulated with difficulty. I had seen him before, however, in the distance.

“And this one!” he roared again, noticing Kirillov, who was still standing with the lantern; he raised his fist, but let it fall again at once.

“I forgive you for your learning! Ignat Lebyadkin⁠—high‑ly ed‑u‑cated.⁠ ⁠…