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“
I
’
m
not
well
;
I
’
ve
grown
irritable
,
”
said
Nikolay
Levin
,
getting
calmer
and
breathing
painfully
;
“
and
then
you
talk
to
me
of
Sergey
Ivanovitch
and
his
article
.
It
’
s
such
rubbish
,
such
lying
,
such
self
-
deception
.
What
can
a
man
write
of
justice
who
knows
nothing
of
it
?
Have
you
read
his
article
?
”
he
asked
Kritsky
,
sitting
down
again
at
the
table
,
and
moving
back
off
half
of
it
the
scattered
cigarettes
,
so
as
to
clear
a
space
.
“
I
’
ve
not
read
it
,
”
Kritsky
responded
gloomily
,
obviously
not
desiring
to
enter
into
the
conversation
.
“
Why
not
?
”
said
Nikolay
Levin
,
now
turning
with
exasperation
upon
Kritsky
.
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“
Because
I
didn
’
t
see
the
use
of
wasting
my
time
over
it
.
”
“
Oh
,
but
excuse
me
,
how
did
you
know
it
would
be
wasting
your
time
?
That
article
’
s
too
deep
for
many
people
—
that
’
s
to
say
it
’
s
over
their
heads
.
But
with
me
,
it
’
s
another
thing
;
I
see
through
his
ideas
,
and
I
know
where
its
weakness
lies
.
”
Everyone
was
mute
.
Kritsky
got
up
deliberately
and
reached
his
cap
.
“
Won
’
t
you
have
supper
?
All
right
,
good
-
bye
!
Come
round
tomorrow
with
the
locksmith
.
”
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Kritsky
had
hardly
gone
out
when
Nikolay
Levin
smiled
and
winked
.
“
He
’
s
no
good
either
,
”
he
said
.
“
I
see
,
of
course
.
.
.
.
”
But
at
that
instant
Kritsky
,
at
the
door
,
called
him
.
.
.
.