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 more, he was ashamed to murder me because, in this very place, I put the holy icon from the relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on his neck. … And to think how near I was to death at that minute, I went close up to him and he stretched out his neck to me! … Do you know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you said your name was Pyotr Ilyitch), I don’t believe in miracles, but that icon and this unmistakable miracle with me now—that shakes me, and I’m ready to believe in anything