“No, I am not reading about the fires.” Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. “No, I am not reading about the fires,” he went on, winking at Zametov. “But confess now, my dear fellow, you’re awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?”
“I am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why do you keep on...?”
“Listen, you are a man of culture and education?”
“I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,” said Zametov with some dignity.
“Sixth class! Ah, my c**k-sparrow! With your parting and your rings—you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!” Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended.
“Foo! how strange you are!” Zametov repeated very seriously
