“Stay, here it is!” Pyotr Stepanovitch pulled a roll of notepaper out of a pocket at the back of his coat. “It’s a little crumpled. Only fancy, it’s been lying there with my pocket-handkerchief ever since I took it from you; I forgot it.”

Karmazinov greedily snatched the manuscript, carefully examined it, counted the pages, and laid it respectfully beside him on a special table, for the time, in such a way that he would not lose sight of it for an instant.

“You don’t read very much, it seems?” he hissed, unable to restrain himself.

“No, not very much.”

“And nothing in the way of Russian literature?”

“In the way of Russian literature? Let me see, I have read something.⁠ ⁠… ‘On the Way’ or ‘Away!’ or ‘At the Parting of the Ways’⁠—something of the sort; I don’t remember. It’s a long time since I read it, five years ago. I’ve no time.”