1. CHAPTER I
"But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
"It's simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We
don't want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go
Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh.
"But you're . . . but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing
in the frankest way. "I hoped to get round you, but you took up the
right line at once!"
"But you are trying to get round me still!"
"What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly. "But
this is what the French call /bonne guerre/, and the most innocent
form of deception! . . . But still you have interrupted me; one way or
another, I repeat again: there would never have been any
unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa
Petrovna . . ."
"You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov
"Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though. . . . But
as for your question, I really don't know what to say, though my own
conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in
any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical
inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy
dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing
else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late,
on my way here in the train, especially: didn't I contribute to all
that . . . calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of
the sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out
of the question."
"I wonder you trouble yourself about it!"