noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others. … Let us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing! To life, and to one queen of queens!”
“Let’s drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like.”
They drank a glass each. Although Mitya was excited and expansive, yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him.
“Misha … here’s your Misha come! Misha, come here, my boy, drink this glass to Phoebus, the golden-haired, of tomorrow morn. …”
“What are you giving it him for?” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably.
“Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!”
“E—ech!”
Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out.
“He’ll remember it afterwards,” Mitya remarked. “Woman, I love woman! What is woman? The queen