“Aha, I’ve caught you at last, you secretive monarch of the town!” Pyotr Stepanovitch cried out laughing, and laid his hand over the manifesto on the table. “This increases your collection, eh?”

Andrey Antonovitch flushed crimson; his face seemed to twitch.

“Leave off, leave off at once!” he cried, trembling with rage. “And don’t you dare⁠ ⁠… sir⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s the matter with you? You seem to be angry!”

“Allow me to inform you, sir, that I’ve no intention of putting up with your sans façon henceforward, and I beg you to remember⁠ ⁠…”

“Why, damn it all, he is in earnest!”

“Hold your tongue, hold your tongue”⁠—Von Lembke stamped on the carpet⁠—“and don’t dare⁠ ⁠…”