“Eat it if you can.”
“Thank you, and then I’ll have tea.”
He instantly settled himself at the other end of the sofa and fell upon the chicken with extraordinary greediness; at the same time he kept a constant watch on his victim. Kirillov looked at him fixedly with angry aversion, as though unable to tear himself away.
“I say, though,” Pyotr Stepanovitch fired off suddenly, while he still went on eating, “what about our business? We are not crying off, are we? How about that document?”
“I’ve decided in the night that it’s nothing to me. I’ll write it. About the manifestoes?”
“Yes, about the manifestoes too. But I’ll dictate it. Of course, that’s nothing to you. Can you possibly mind what’s in the letter at such a moment?”
“That’s not your business.”
“It’s not mine, of course. It need only be a few lines, though: that you and Shatov distributed the manifestoes and with the help of Fedka, who hid in your lodgings. This last point about Fedka and your lodgings is very important—the most important of all, indeed. You see, I am talking to you quite openly.”
“Shatov? Why Shatov? I won’t mention Shatov for anything.”
“What next! What is it to you? You can’t hurt him now.”