Not one muscle moved in Stavrogin’s face. Shatov looked passionately and defiantly at him, as though he would have scorched him with his eyes.

“I haven’t told you that I don’t believe,” he cried at last. “I will only have you know that I am a luckless, tedious book, and nothing more so far, so far.⁠ ⁠… But confound me! We’re discussing you not me.⁠ ⁠… I’m a man of no talent, and can only give my blood, nothing more, like every man without talent; never mind my blood either! I’m talking about you. I’ve been waiting here two years for you.⁠ ⁠… Here I’ve been dancing about in my nakedness before you for the last half-hour. You, only you can raise that flag!⁠ ⁠…”

He broke off, and sat as though in despair, with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.