“Good God! He must have killed his old father!” she cried, clasping her hands. “I have never given him money, never! Oh, run, run! … Don’t say another word! Save the old man … run to his father … run!”
“Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember for a fact that you did not give him any money?”
“No, I didn’t, I didn’t! I refused to give it him, for he could not appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I slipped away. … And let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from you now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that! But why are we standing? Ah, sit down.”
“Excuse me, I. …”
“Or better run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from an awful death!”
“But if he has killed him already?”
“Ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you think we must do now?”
Meantime she had made Pyotr Ilyitch sit down and sat down herself, facing him. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Pyotr Ilyitch told her the history of the affair, that part of it at least which he had himself witnessed. He described, too, his visit to Fenya, and told her about the pestle. All these details produced an overwhelming effect on the distracted lady, who kept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with her hands. …
“Would you believe it, I foresaw all this! I have that special faculty, whatever I imagine comes to pass. And how often I’ve looked at that awful man and always thought, that man will end by murdering me. And now it’s happened … that is, if he hasn’t murdered me, but only his own father, it’s only because the finger of God preserved me, and what’s