“But what object had you in view in arming yourself with such a weapon?”
“What object? No object. I just picked it up and ran off.”
“What for, if you had no object?”
Mitya’s wrath flared up. He looked intently at “the boy” and smiled gloomily and malignantly. He was feeling more and more ashamed at having told “such people” the story of his jealousy so sincerely and spontaneously.
“Bother the pestle!” broke from him suddenly.
“But still—”
“Oh, to keep off dogs.... Oh, because it was dark.... In case anything turned up.”
“But have you ever on previous occasions taken a weapon with you when you went out, since you’re afraid of the dark?”
“Ugh! damn it all, gentlemen! There’s positively no talking to you!” cried Mitya, exasperated beyond endurance, and turning to the secretary, crimson with anger, he said quickly, with a note of fury in his voice:
“Write down at once ... at once ... ‘that I snatched up the pestle to go and kill my father ... Fyodor Pavlovitch ... by hitting him on the head with it!’ Well, now are you satisfied, gentlemen? Are your minds relieved?” he said, glaring defiantly at the lawyers.