“No, no, Lizabetha Prokofievna, take no notice of me. I am not going to have a fit. I will go away directly; but I know I am afflicted. I was twenty-four years an invalid, you see⁠—the first twenty-four years of my life⁠—so take all I do and say as the sayings and actions of an invalid. I’m going away directly, I really am⁠—don’t be afraid. I am not blushing, for I don’t think I need blush about it, need I? But I see that I am out of place in society⁠—society is better without me. It’s not vanity, I assure you. I have thought over it all these last three days, and I have made up my mind that I ought to unbosom myself candidly before you at the first opportunity. There are certain things, certain great ideas, which I must not so much as approach, as Prince S⁠⸺ has just reminded me, or I shall make you all laugh. I have no sense of proportion, I know; my words and gestures do not express my ideas⁠—they are a humiliation and abasement of the ideas, and therefore, I have no right⁠—and I am too sensitive. Still, I believe I am beloved in this household, and esteemed far more than I deserve. But I can’t help knowing that after twenty-four years of illness there must be some trace left, so that it is impossible for people to refrain from laughing at me sometimes; don’t you think so?”