“I have little brothers and sisters, over there, poor and innocent. She will corrupt them! You are a saint! You are a child yourself⁠—save them! Snatch them from that⁠ ⁠… she is⁠ ⁠… it is shameful! Oh! help them! God will repay you a hundredfold. For the love of God, for the love of Christ!”

“Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch! What are we to do?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, irritably. “Please break your majestic silence! I tell you, if you cannot come to some decision, I will stay here all night myself. You have tyrannized over me enough, you autocrat!”

She spoke angrily, and in great excitement, and expected an immediate reply. But in such a case, no matter how many are present, all prefer to keep silence: no one will take the initiative, but all reserve their comments till afterwards. There were some present⁠—Varvara Ardalionovna, for instance⁠—who would have willingly sat there till morning without saying a word. Varvara had sat apart all the evening without opening her lips, but she listened to everything with the closest attention; perhaps she had her reasons for so doing.