“My dear, you have touched on another sore spot with your friendly finger. Such friendly fingers are generally merciless and sometimes unreasonable; pardon , you may not believe it, but I’d almost forgotten all that, all that nastiness, not that I forgot it, indeed, but in my foolishness I tried all the while I was with Lise to be happy and persuaded myself I was happy. But now⁠ ⁠… Oh, now I’m thinking of that generous, humane woman, so long-suffering with my contemptible failings⁠—not that she’s been altogether long-suffering, but what have I been with my horrid, worthless character! I’m a capricious child, with all the egoism of a child and none of the innocence. For the last twenty years she’s been looking after me like a nurse, cette pauvre auntie, as Lise so charmingly calls her.⁠ ⁠… And now, after twenty years, the child clamours to be married, sending letter after letter, while her head’s in a vinegar-compress and⁠ ⁠… now he’s got it⁠—on Sunday I shall be a married man, that’s no joke.⁠ ⁠… And why did I keep insisting myself, what did I write those letters for? Oh, I forgot. Lise idolizes Darya Pavlovna, she says so anyway; she says of her ‘