Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he’s made no will. … Dmitri Fyodorovitch knows all that very well.”
A sort of shudder passed over Ivan’s face. He suddenly flushed.
“Then why on earth,” he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, “do you advise me to go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see what will happen here.”
Ivan drew his breath with difficulty.
“Precisely so,” said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan intently, however.
“What do you mean by ‘precisely so’?” Ivan questioned him, with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty.
“I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I should simply throw it all up … rather than stay on in such a position,” answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan’s flashing eyes. They were both silent.
“You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what’s more … an awful scoundrel, too.” Ivan rose suddenly