you like. Have you heard about Father Zossima? … But I don’t know what I’m saying … and only fancy, with the icon on his neck he spat at me. … He only spat, it’s true, he didn’t murder me and … he dashed away! But what shall we do, what must we do now? What do you think?”
Pyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight to the police captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he thought fit.
“Oh, he’s an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I know him. Of course, he’s the person to go to. How practical you are, Pyotr Ilyitch! How well you’ve thought of everything! I should never have thought of it in your place!”
“Especially as I know the police captain very well, too,” observed Pyotr Ilyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious to escape as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would not let him say goodbye and go away.
“And be sure, be sure,” she prattled on, “to come back and tell me what you see there, and what you find out … what comes to light … how they’ll try him … and what he’s condemned to. … Tell me, we have no capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it’s at three o’clock at night, at four, at half-past four. … Tell them to wake me, to wake me, to shake me, if I don’t get up. … But, good heavens, I shan’t sleep! But wait, hadn’t I better come with you?”
“N—no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating that you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch