In the midst
of the tumult, a young man, younger than himself, approached him with
blazing eyes.
"I must beg you," he said, with venomous politeness, "to be good enough
not to move from this spot till you are told what you are to do."
Razumov shrugged his shoulders. "I came in voluntarily."
"Maybe. But you won't go out till you are permitted," retorted the
other.
He beckoned with his hand, calling out, "Louisa! Louisa! come here,
please"; and, presently, one of the Laspara girls (they had been staring
at Razumov from behind the samovar) came along, trailing a bedraggled
tail of dirty flounces, and dragging with her a chair, which she set
against the door, and, sitting down on it, crossed her legs. The young
man thanked her effusively, and rejoined a group carrying on an animated
discussion in low tones. Razumov lost himself for a moment.
A squeaky voice screamed, "Confession or no confession, you are a police
spy!"
The revolutionist Nikita had pushed his way in front of Razumov, and
faced him with his big, livid cheeks, his heavy paunch, bull neck, and
enormous hands. Razumov looked at the famous slayer of gendarmes in
silent disgust.
"And what are you?" he said, very low, then shut his eyes, and rested
the back of his head against the wall.
"It would be better for you to depart now.
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