"Oh, that's it!" exclaimed the Little Russian. "And pray, who'd
blame you for that? Fools!"
"Both the fools and the wise are smeared with the same oil!" said
Nikolay heavily. "Here are you a wise fellow, and Pavel, too.
And do you mean to say that I am the same to you as Fedya Mazin or
Samoylov, or as you two are to each other? Don't lie! I won't
believe you, anyway. You all push me aside to a place apart, all
by myself."
"Your heart is aching, Nikolay!" said the Little Russian softly and
tenderly sitting down beside him.
"Yes, it's aching, and so is your heart. But your aches seem nobler
to you than mine. We are all scoundrels toward one another, that's
what I say. And what have you to say to that?"
He fixed his sharp gaze on Andrey, and waited with set teeth. His
mottled face remained immobile, and a quiver passed over his thick
lips, as if scorched by a flame.
"I have nothing to say!" said the Little Russian, meeting Vyesovshchikov's
hostile glance with a bright, warm, yet melancholy look of his blue
eyes. "I know that to argue with a man at a time when all the wounds
of his heart are bleeding, is only to insult him. I know it, brother.
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