“Can one help loving one’s own country?” he shouted.
“Be silent! Don’t quarrel! I won’t have any quarreling!” cried Grushenka imperiously, and she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining. The effects of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Mitya was terribly alarmed.
“Panovie, forgive me! It was my fault, I’m sorry. Vrublevsky, panie Vrublevsky, I’m sorry.”
“Hold your tongue, you, anyway! Sit down, you stupid!” Grushenka scolded with angry annoyance.
Every one sat down, all were silent, looking at one another.
“Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all,” Mitya began again, unable to make anything of Grushenka’s words. “Come, why are we sitting here? What shall we do ... to amuse ourselves again?”
“Ach, it’s certainly anything but amusing!” Kalganov mumbled lazily.
“Let’s play faro again, as we did just now,” Maximov tittered suddenly.
“Faro? Splendid!” cried Mitya. “If only the panovie—”
“It’s lite, panovie,” the Pole on the sofa responded, as it were unwillingly.