Pyotr Stepanovitch was much excited, but for some time past Kirillov had not been listening. He paced up and down the room, lost in thought again.
“I am sorry for Shatov,” he said, stopping before Pyotr Stepanovitch again.
“Why so? I am sorry, if that’s all, and do you suppose …”
“Hold your tongue, you scoundrel,” roared Kirillov, making an alarming and unmistakable movement; “I’ll kill you.”
“There, there, there! I told a lie, I admit it; I am not sorry at all. Come, that’s enough, that’s enough.” Pyotr Stepanovitch started up apprehensively, putting out his hand.
Kirillov subsided and began walking up and down again.
“I won’t put it off; I want to kill myself now: all are scoundrels.”
“Well, that’s an idea; of course all are scoundrels; and since life is a beastly thing for a dece
