“Allow me to know better,” said the aunt. “You see,” she went on to Nekhludoff, “it all happened because a certain person asked me to keep his papers for a time, and I, having no house at the time, brought them to her. And that very night the police searched her room and took her and the papers, and have kept her up to now, demanding that she should say from whom she had them.”
“But I never told them,” said Shoustova quickly, pulling nervously at a lock that was not even out of place.
“I never said you did,” answered the aunt.
“If they took Mitin up it was certainly not through me,” said Shoustova, blushing, and looking round uneasily.
“Don’t speak about it, Lydia dear,” said her mother.
“Why not? I should like to relate it,” said Shoustova, no longer smiling nor pulling her lock, but twisting it round her finger and getting redder.
“Don’t forget what happened yesterday when you began talking about it.”
“Not at all—-Leave me alone, mamma. I did not tell, I only kept quiet. When he examined me about Mitin and about aunt, I said nothing, and told him I would not answer.”
“Then this—Petrov—”
“Petrov is a spy, a gendarme, and a blackguard,” put in the aunt, to explain her niece’s words to Nekhludoff.