“Look here, my dear sir,” he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very loud tone of voice; “if you have really made up your mind to sacrifice an old man⁠—your father too or at all events father of your wife⁠—an old man who has served his emperor⁠—to a wretched little atheist like this, all I can say is, sir, my foot shall cease to tread your floors. Make your choice, sir; make your choice quickly, if you please! Me or this⁠—screw! Yes, screw, sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand⁠—this screw , for he screws and drills himself into my soul⁠—”

“Hadn’t you better say corkscrew?” said Hippolyte.

“No, sir, not corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your choice, sir⁠—me or him.”

Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it, breathless with rage.