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المؤلف: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his
ideas now seemed to be circling round some single point, and he
felt that there really was such a point, and that now, now, he
was left facing that point--and for the first time, indeed,
during the last two months.
"Damn it all!" he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable
fury. "If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life!
Good Lord, how stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How
despicably I fawned upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that
is all folly! What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon
them! It is not that at all! It is not that at all!"
Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly
simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.

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