" I have hundreds of rubles I don't know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered cloak looking timidly at me," he thought.

" And what does she want the money for? As if that money could add a hair's breadth to happiness or peace of mind.

Can anything in the world make her or me less a prey to evil and death?--death which ends all and must come today or tomorrow--at any rate, in an instant as compared with eternity.

" And again he twisted the screw with the stripped thread, and again it turned uselessly in the same place.

His servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters, by Madame de Souza.