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‘You’re fools, you Panovie,’ broke suddenly from Mitya.
‘Panie!’ shouted both the Poles, menacingly, setting on
Mitya like a couple of cocks. Pan Vrublevsky was specially
furious.
‘Can one help loving one’s own country?’ he shouted.
‘Be silent! Don’t quarrel! I won’t have any quarrelling!’
cried Grushenka imperiously, and she stamped her foot on
the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining. The effects
of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Mitya was
terribly alarmed.
‘Panovie, forgive me! It was my fault, I’m sorry. Vrublevsky,
panie Vrublevsky, I’m sorry.’
‘Hold your tongue, you, anyway! Sit down, you stupid!’.
Grushenka scolded with angry annoyance.
Everyone sat down, all were silent, looking at one anoth-
er.
‘Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all,’ Mitya began again,
unable to make anything of Grushenka’s words. ‘Come,
why are we sitting here? What shall we do... to amuse our-
selves again?’
‘Ach, it’s certainly anything but amusing!’ Kalgonov
mumbled lazily.
‘Let’s play faro again, as we did just now,’ Maximov tit-
tered suddenly.
‘Faro? Splendid!’ cried Mitya. ‘If only the panovie-.’
‘It’s lite, panovie,’ the Pole on the sofa responded, as it
were unwillingly.
‘That’s true,’ assented Pan Vrublevsky.
‘Lite? What do you mean by ‘lite’?’ asked Grushenka.