He somehow appeased her and promised to be back at nine o’clock; he kissed her warmly, kissed the baby and ran down quickly to Erkel.
They set off together to Stavrogin’s park at Skvoreshniki, where, in a secluded place at the very edge of the park where it adjoined the pine wood, he had, eighteen months before, buried the printing press which had been entrusted to him. It was a wild and deserted place, quite hidden and at some distance from the Stavrogins’ house. It was two or perhaps three miles from Filipov’s house.
“Are we going to walk all the way? I’ll take a cab.”
“I particularly beg you not to,” replied Erkel.
They insisted on that. A cabman would be a witness.
“Well … bother! I don’t care, only to make an end of it.”
They walked very fast.
“Erkel, you little boy,” cried Shatov, “have you ever been happy?”
“You seem to be very happy just now,” observed Erkel with curiosity.