“You were so primed up with your elder’s teaching last night that now you have to let it off on me, Alexey, man of God!” said Rakitin, with a smile of hatred.
“Don’t laugh, Rakitin, don’t smile, don’t talk of the dead—he was better than anyone in the world!” cried Alyosha, with tears in his voice. “I didn’t speak to you as a judge but as the lowest of the judged. What am I beside her? I came here seeking my ruin, and said to myself, ‘What does it matter?’ in my cowardliness, but she, after five years in torment, as soon as anyone says a word from the heart to her—it makes her forget everything, forgive everything, in her tears! The man who has wronged her has come back, he sends for her and she forgives him everything, and hastens joyfully to meet him and she won’t take a knife with her. She won’t! No, I am not like that. I don’t know whether you are, Misha, but I am not like that. It’s a lesson to me. … She is more loving than we. … Have you heard her speak before of what she has just told us? No, you haven’t; if you had, you’d have understood her long ago … and the person insulted the day before yesterday must forgive her, too! She will, when she knows … and she shall know. … This soul is not yet at peace with itself, one must be tender with it … there may be a treasure in that soul. …”
Alyosha stopped, because he caught his breath. In spite of his ill-humor Rakitin looked at him with astonishment. He had never expected such a tirade from the gentle Alyosha.
“She’s found someone to plead her cause! Why, are you in love with her? Agrafena Alexandrovna, our monk’s really in love with you, you’ve made a conquest!” he cried, with a coarse laugh.
Grushenka lifted her head from the pillow and looked at Alyosha with a tender smile shining on her tear-stained face.