“Well then, tell away if you’re not afraid of your master’s whip.⁠ ⁠… You’re a coward, though you are a captain!”

“I⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… she’s⁠ ⁠… she’s⁠ ⁠…” faltered Lebyadkin in a voice shaking with excitement.

“Well?” Shatov put his ear to the door.

A silence followed, lasting at least half a minute.

“Sc‑ou‑oundrel!” came from the other side of the door at last, and the captain hurriedly beat a retreat downstairs, puffing like a samovar, stumbling on every step.

“Yes, he’s a sly one, and won’t give himself away even when he’s drunk.”

Shatov moved away from the door.

“What’s it all about?” I asked.