“And do you know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how people do go out of their mind?” Ivan asked in a voice suddenly quiet, without a trace of irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity.
“No, I don’t. I suppose there are all kinds of insanity.”
“And can one observe that one’s going mad oneself?”
“I imagine one can’t see oneself clearly in such circumstances,” Alyosha answered with surprise.
Ivan paused for half a minute.
“If you want to talk to me, please change the subject,” he said suddenly.
“Oh, while I think of it, I have a letter for you,” said Alyosha timidly, and he took Lise’s note from his pocket and held it out to Ivan. They were just under a lamppost. Ivan recognized the handwriting at once.
“Ah, from that little demon!” he laughed maliciously, and, without opening the envelope, he tore it into bits and threw it in the air. The bits were scattered by the wind.
“She’s not sixteen yet, I believe, and already offering herself,” he said contemptuously, striding along the street again.
“How do you mean, offering herself?” exclaimed Alyosha.
“As wanton women offer themselves, to be sure.”
“How can you, Ivan, how can you?” Alyosha cried warmly, in a grieved voice. “She is a child; you are insulting a child! She is ill; she is very ill, too. She is on the verge of insanity, too, perhaps. … I had hoped to hear something from you … that would save her.”
“You’ll hear nothing from me. If she is a child I am not her nurse. Be quiet, Alexey. Don’t go on about her. I am not even thinking about it.”