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anyhow. Time was passing: the thought of his dying elder
had not left Alyosha for one minute from the time he set off
from the monastery.
There was one point which interested him particularly
about Katerina Ivanovna’s commission; when she had men-
tioned the captain’s son, the little schoolboy who had run
beside his father crying, the idea had at once struck Alyosha
that this must be the schoolboy who had bitten his finger
when he, Alyosha, asked him what he had done to hurt
him. Now Alyosha felt practically certain of this, though he
could not have said why. Thinking of another subject was a
relief, and he resolved to think no more about the ‘mischief ’
he had done, and not to torture himself with remorse, but to
do what he had to do, let come what would. At that thought
he was completely comforted. Turning to the street where
Dmitri lodged, he felt hungry, and taking out of his pocket
the roll he had brought from his father’s, he ate it. It made
him feel stronger.
Dmitri was not at home. The people of the house, an old
cabinet-maker, his son, and his old wife, looked with posi-
tive suspicion at Alyosha. ‘He hasn’t slept here for the last
three nights. Maybe he has gone away,’ the old man said in
answer to Alyosha’s persistent inquiries. Alyosha saw that
he was answering in accordance with instructions. When
he asked whether he were not at Grushenka’s or in hiding
at Foma’s (Alyosha spoke so freely on purpose), all three
looked at him in alarm. ‘They are fond of him, they are do-
ing their best for him,’ thought Alyosha. ‘That’s good.’
At last he found the house in Lake Street. It was a decrepit