as before. Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away.
“What’s the matter with you?” cried Ivan.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean by ‘nothing’?”
“Yes, she has. It’s no matter to you. Let me alone.”
“No, I won’t let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?”
“Why, I’d quite forgotten about her,” said Smerdyakov, with a scornful smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last interview, a month before.
“You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don’t look like yourself,” he said to Ivan.
“Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you.”
“But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so worried?”
He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright.
“Listen; I’ve told you