the twenties, so that the dates don’t fit. He couldn’t have been thrashed then, he couldn’t, could he?”
It was difficult to imagine what Kalganov was excited about, but his excitement was genuine. Mitya followed his lead without protest.
“Well, but if they did thrash him!” he cried, laughing.
“It’s not that they thrashed me exactly, but what I mean is—” put in Maximov.
“What do you mean? Either they thrashed you or they didn’t.”
“What o’clock is it, panie ?” the Pole, with the pipe, asked his tall friend, with a bored expression. The other shrugged his shoulders in reply. Neither of them had a watch.
“Why not talk? Let other people talk. Mustn’t other people talk because you’re bored?” Grushenka flew at him with evident intention of finding fault. Something seemed for the first time to flash upon Mitya’s