out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe Grigory’s face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor.
“Oh, damn it!” he said. “Haven’t you a rag of some sort … to wipe my face?”
“So you’re only stained, not wounded? You’d better wash,” said Pyotr Ilyitch. “Here’s a washstand. I’ll pour you out some water.”
“A washstand? That’s all right … but where am I to put this?”
With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred-rouble notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitya,