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whole hour to look after the peasant, but should have passed
by, without caring about his being frozen. I am quite capa-
ble of watching myself, by the way,’ he thought at the same
instant, with still greater satisfaction, ‘although they have
decided that I am going out of my mind!’
Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking
himself suddenly hadn’t he better go at once to the prose-
cutor and tell him everything. He decided the question by
turning back to the house. ‘Everything together to-morrow!’
he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his
gladness and selfsatisfaction passed in one instant.
As he entered his own room he felt something like a
touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly,
a reminder, of something agonising and revolting that was
in that room now, at that moment, and had been there be-
fore. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought
him a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on
the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless.
He was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and
walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At mo-
ments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that
he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking
round, as though searching for something. This happened
several times. At last his eyes were fastened intently on one
point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush suffused his face. He
sat a long time in his place, his head propped on both arms,
though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa
that stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently
something, some object, that irritated him there, worried