follow you forever, wherever they may send you. Farewell; you are guiltless, though you’ve been your own undoing.”
Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes.
“Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love.”
Mitya would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He was at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him.
At the bottom of the steps to which he had driven up with such a dash the day before with Andrey’s three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, a sturdy, thickset man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed about something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He asked Mitya to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness.
“When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different face,” thought Mitya, as