like Von Sohn,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly.
“Is that all you can think of? … In what way is he like Von Sohn? Have you ever seen Von Sohn?”
“I’ve seen his portrait. It’s not the features, but something indefinable. He’s a second Von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy.”
“Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin to play the fool I don’t intend to be associated with you here. … You see what a man he is”—he turned to the monk—“I’m afraid to go among decent people with him.” A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miüsov frowned more than ever.