“Well, what now? Are you going to flog me? That’s all that’s left for you,” he said, clenching his teeth and addressing the prosecutor. He would not turn to Nikolay Parfenovitch, as though he disdained to speak to him.
“He looked too closely at my socks, and turned them inside out on purpose to show everyone how dirty they were—the scoundrel!”
“Well, now we must proceed to the examination of witnesses,” observed Nikolay Parfenovitch, as though in reply to Mitya’s question.
“Yes,” said the prosecutor thoughtfully, as though reflecting on something.
“We’ve done what we could in your interest, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” Nikolay Parfenovitch went on, “but having received from you such an uncompromising refusal to explain to us the source from which you obtained the money found upon you, we are, at the present moment—”
“What is the stone in your ring?” Mitya interrupted suddenly, as though awakening from a reverie. He pointed to one of the three large rings adorning Nikolay Parfenovitch’s right hand.
“Ring?” repeated Nikolay Parfenovitch with surprise.
“Yes, that one … on your middle finger, with the little veins in it, what stone is that?” Mitya persisted, like a peevish child.
“That’s a smoky topaz,” said Nikolay Parfenovitch, smiling. “Would you like to look at it? I’ll take it off …”