Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it could be seen that it would be so.
“You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow,” Smerdyakov commented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact.
“We’ll go together,” Ivan repeated. “And if you won’t go, no matter, I’ll go alone.”
Smerdyakov paused as though pondering.
“There’ll be nothing of the sort, and you won’t go,” he concluded at last positively.
“You don’t understand me,” Ivan exclaimed reproachfully.
“You’ll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what’s more, it will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks like it, too), or that you’re so sorry for your brother that you are sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for you’ve always thought no more of me than if I’d