In the inner doorway Razumov
had a glimpse of the protuberance of a large stomach, which he
recognized. Only a few feet from him Julius Laspara was getting down
hurriedly from his high stool.
The appearance of the midnight visitor caused no small sensation.
Laspara is very summary in his version of that night's happenings.
After some words of greeting, disregarded by Razumov, Laspara (ignoring
purposely his guest's soaked condition and his extraordinary manner of
presenting himself) mentioned something about writing an article. He
was growing uneasy, and Razumov appeared absent-minded. "I have written
already all I shall ever write," he said at last, with a little laugh.
The whole company's attention was riveted on the new-comer, dripping
with water, deadly pale, and keeping his position against the wall.
Razumov put Laspara gently aside, as though he wished to be seen from
head to foot by everybody. By then the buzz of conversations had died
down completely, even in the most distant of the three rooms. The
doorway facing Razumov became blocked by men and women, who craned their
necks and certainly seemed to expect something startling to happen.
A squeaky, insolent declaration was heard from that group.
"I know this ridiculously conceited individual."
"What individual?" asked Razumov, raising his bowed head, and searching
with his eyes all the eyes fixed upon him.
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