“Of course I refuse,” said Sanine in a strangely calm voice, looking the other straight in the eyes.
Sarudine breathed hard, as if he were lifting a heavy weight.
“Once more I ask you—do you refuse?” His voice had a hard, metallic ring.
Soloveitchik turned very pale. “Oh, dear! Oh! dear! He’s going to hit him!” he thought.
“What … what is the matter?” he stammered, as he endeavoured to protect Sanine.
Scarcely noticing him, Sarudine roughly pushed him aside. He saw nothing else in front of him but Sanine’s cold, calm eyes.
“I have already told you so,” said Sanine, in the same tone.
To Sarudine everything seemed whirling round. He heard behind him hasty footsteps, and the startled cry of a woman. With a sense of despair such as one who falls headlong into a chasm might feel, he clumsily and threateningly flourished the whip.
At that same moment Sanine, using all his strength, struck him full in the face with his clenched fist.
“Good!” exclaimed Ivanoff involuntarily.