“I tell you, blockhead, they are not mine,” one voice shouted.
“May you choke, you devil,” snorted the other.
At this moment Mary Pavlovna came out into the passage.
“How can one talk here?” she said; “go in, Vera is alone there,” and she went in at the second door, and entered a tiny room, evidently meant for a solitary cell, which was now placed at the disposal of the political women prisoners, Vera Doukhova lay covered up, head and all, on the bed.
“She has got a headache, and is asleep, so she cannot hear you, and I will go away,” said Mary Pavlovna.
“On the contrary, stay here,” said Simonson; “I have no secrets from any one, certainly none from you.”
“All right,” said Mary Pavlovna, and moving her whole body from side to side, like a child, so as to get farther back on to the bed, she settled down to listen, her beautiful hazel eyes seeming to look somewhere far away.
“Well, then, this is my business,” Simonson repeated. “Knowing of your relations to Katerina Maslova, I consider myself bound to explain to you my relations to her.”
Nekhludoff could not help admiring the simplicity and truthfulness with which Simonson spoke to him.
“What do you mean?”