is certainly wonderful, madam,” observed Mitya, sitting down limply, “but I have come to you on a matter of great importance. … On a matter of supreme importance for me, that is, madam … for me alone … and I hasten—”
“I know you’ve come on most important business, Dmitri Fyodorovitch; it’s not a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous (have you heard about Father Zossima?). This is a case of mathematics: you couldn’t help coming, after all that has passed with Katerina Ivanovna; you couldn’t, you couldn’t, that’s a mathematical certainty.”
“The realism of actual life, madam, that’s what it is. But allow me to explain—”
“Realism indeed, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I’m all for realism now. I’ve seen too much of miracles. You’ve heard that Father Zossima is dead?”
“No, madam, it’s the first time I’ve heard