Elisaveta showed her annoyance and corrected him:
“Elisaveta. How many times have I told you?”
Stchemilov smiled.
“A lordly caprice, comrade Elisaveta. Well, as you like, though it is a trifle hard to pronounce. Now we would say Lizaveta.”
Kiril complained of his failures, of the police, of the detectives, of the patriots. His complaints were pitiful and depressing. He had been arrested and had lost his job. It was easy to see that he had suffered. The gleam of hunger trembled in his eyes.
“The police treated me most horribly,” complained Kiril, “and then there’s my family....”
After an awkward silence he continued:
“Not a single thing escapes them at our factory, you get humiliated at every step. They actually search you.”
Again he lapsed into silence. Again he complained:
“They force their way into your soul. You can’t hold private conversations.... They stop at nothing.”