not to know where I am on purpose, to prolong my agony, to enjoy my terror. … That’s just what you’re doing now. It’s just like that!”
“Is that the sort of thing you dream about?” inquired the prosecutor.
“Yes, it is. Don’t you want to write it down?” said Mitya, with a distorted smile.
“No; no need to write it down. But still you do have curious dreams.”
“It’s not a question of dreams now, gentlemen—this is realism, this is real life! I’m a wolf and you’re the hunters. Well, hunt him down!”
“You are wrong to make such comparisons …” began Nikolay Parfenovitch, with extraordinary softness.
“No, I’m not wrong, not at all!” Mitya flared up again, though his outburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more good-humored at every word. > “You may not trust a criminal or a man