was only laughing. I wouldn’t have gone to him for
“To whom are you referring as ‘that wicked wretch’?” inquired the prosecutor.
“The lackey, Smerdyakov, who murdered his master and hanged himself last night.”
She was, of course, at once asked what ground she had for such a definite accusation; but it appeared that she, too, had no grounds for it.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch told me so himself; you can believe him. The woman who came between us has ruined him; she is the cause of it all, let me tell you,” Grushenka added. She seemed to be quivering with hatred, and there was a vindictive note in her voice.
She was again asked to whom she was referring.
“The young lady, Katerina Ivanovna there. She sent for me, offered me chocolate, tried to fascinate me. There’s not much true shame about her, I can tell you that. …”
At this point the President checked her sternly, begging her to moderate