I must here remark that he never could bear to have his possessions tampered with. Woe to the person, in particular, who touched his books! Judge, therefore, of my horror when books small and great, books of every possible shape and size and thickness, came tumbling from the shelf, and flew and sprang over the table, and under the chairs, and about the whole room. I would have turned and fled, but it was too late. “All is over!” thought I. “All is over! I am ruined, I am undone! Here have I been playing the fool like a ten-year-old child! What a stupid girl I am! The monstrous fool!”

Indeed, Pokrovski was very angry. “What? Have you not done enough?” he cried. “Are you not ashamed to be forever indulging in such pranks? Are you never going to grow sensible?” With that he darted forward to pick up the books, while I bent down to help him.

“You need not, you need not!” he went on. “You would have done far better not to have entered without an invitation.”