"In matters of politics I am a supernaturalist." Madame de S-- broke
the silence harshly.
Peter Ivanovitch moved away from the window and struck Razumov lightly
on the shoulder. This was a signal for leaving, but at the same time he
addressed Madame de S-- in a peculiar reminding tone---
"Eleanor!"
Whatever it meant, she did not seem to hear him. She leaned back in the
corner of the sofa like a wooden figure. The immovable peevishness of
the face, framed in the limp, rusty lace, had a character of cruelty.
"As to extirpating," she croaked at the attentive Razumov, "there is
only one class in Russia which must be extirpated. Only one. And that
class consists of only one family. You understand me? That one family
must be extirpated."
Her rigidity was frightful, like the rigor of a corpse galvanized into
harsh speech and glittering stare by the force of murderous hate. The
sight fascinated Razumov--yet he felt more self-possessed than at
any other time since he had entered this weirdly bare room. He was
interested. But the great feminist by his side again uttered his
appeal--
"Eleanor!"
She disregarded it. Her carmine lips vaticinated with an extraordinary
rapidity. The liberating spirit would use arms before which rivers would
part like Jordan, and ramparts fall down like the walls of Jericho.
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