“You are doing nothing; read that,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly, throwing him a sheet of paper. Liputin went nearer to the candle. The paper was closely covered with bad handwriting, with corrections in every line. By the time he had mastered it Pyotr Stepanovitch had paid his bill and was ready to go. When they were on the pavement Liputin handed him back the paper.
“Keep it; I’ll tell you afterwards.… What do you say to it, though?”
Liputin shuddered all over.
“In my opinion … such a manifesto … is nothing but a ridiculous absurdity.”
His anger broke out; he felt as though he were being caught up and carried along.
“If we decide to distribute such manifestoes,” he said, quivering all over, “we’ll make ourselves, contemptible by our stupidity and incompetence.”
“H’m! I think differently,” said Pyotr Stepanovitch, walking on resolutely.
“So do I; surely it isn’t your work?”
“That’s not your business.”
“I think too that doggerel, ‘A Noble Personality,’ is the most utter trash possible, and it couldn’t have been written by Herzen.”