“How? What? Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m perfectly in possession of all my faculties.”
“Do you suppose I knew of the murder?” Ivan cried at last, and he brought his fist violently on the table. “What do you mean by ‘something else, too’? Speak, scoundrel!”
Smerdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare.
“Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that ‘something else, too’?”
“The ‘something else’ I meant was that you probably, too, were very desirous of your parent’s death.”
Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder, so that he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears. Saying, “It’s a shame, sir, to strike a sick man,” he dried his eyes with a very dirty blue check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute passed.
“That’s enough! Leave off,” Ivan said peremptorily, sitting down again. “Don’t put me out of all patience.”
Smerdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face reflected the insult he had just received.
“So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dmitri I meant to kill my father?”