“Good‐by, Trifon Borissovitch!” Mitya shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good‐nature, but involuntarily, from resentment.
But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no reply.
“Good‐by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good‐by!” he heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on.
Mitya had time to seize and press his hand.
“Good‐by, dear fellow! I shan’t forget your generosity,” he cried warmly.
But the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and Mitya was driven off.
Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying as though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he believed almost without doubt in Mitya’s guilt.
“What are these people? What can men be after this?” he exclaimed incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had no desire to live.
“Is it worth it? Is it worth it?” exclaimed the boy in his grief.