a game. The game cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of his partners that Dmitri Karamazov had come in for some cash again—something like three thousand roubles, and had gone to Mokroe again to spend it with Grushenka. … This news roused singular interest in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with a strange gravity. They left off playing.
“Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand?”
Questions were asked. The story of Madame Hohlakov’s present was received with skepticism.
“Hasn’t he robbed his old father?—that’s the question.”
“Three thousand! There’s something odd about it.”
“He boasted aloud that he would kill his father; we all heard him, here. And it was three thousand he talked about …”
Pyotr Ilyitch listened. All at once he became short and dry in his answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitya’s face and hands, though he had meant to speak of it at first.