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hands again.
‘That’s blood, Fenya,’ he said, looking at her with a
strange expression. ‘That’s human blood, and my God! why
was it shed? But... Fenya... there’s a fence here’ (he looked at
her as though setting her a riddle), ‘a high fence, and ter-
rible to look at. But at dawn to-morrow, when the sun rises,
Mitya will leap over that fence.... You don’t understand what
fence, Fenya, and, never mind.... You’ll hear to-morrow and
understand... and now, good-bye. I won’t stand in her way.
I’ll step aside, I know how to step aside. Live, my joy.... You
loved me for an hour, remember Mityenka Karamazov so
for ever.... She always used to call me Mityenka, do you re-
member?’
And with those words he went suddenly out of the kitchen.
Fenya was almost more frightened at this sudden departure
than she had been when he ran in and attacked her.
Just ten minutes later Dmitri went in to Pyotr Ilyitch
Perhotin, the young official with whom he had pawned his
pistols. It was by now half-past eight, and Pyotr Ilyitch had
finished his evening tea, and had just put his coat on again
to go to the Metropolis to play billiards. Mitya caught him
coming out.
Seeing him with his face all smeared with blood, the
young man uttered a cry of surprise.
‘Good heavens! What is the matter?’
‘I’ve come for my pistols,’ said Mitya, ‘and brought you
the money. And thanks very much. I’m in a hurry, Pyotr
Ilyitch, please make haste.’
Pyotr Ilyitch grew more and more surprised; he sudden-