with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill, “It’s not that he’s laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the tea away; he wouldn’t have any.”
“Why, does he make a row?” asked Ivan coarsely.
“Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he’s very quiet. Only please don’t talk to him too long,” Marya Kondratyevna begged him.
Ivan opened the door and stepped into the room.
It was overheated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing the same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the sofa, so that there was hardly room