"You did not make that up yourself!"
"I can never remember words," said Jikharev, shivering in the bitter cold. "I can't remember anything; but he, I see—It is an amazing thing—a man who actually pities the devil! He has made you sorry for him, hasn't he?"
"He has," agreed Sitanov.
"There, that is a real man!" exclaimed Jikharev reminiscently. In the vestibule he warned me: "You, Maxim, don't speak to any one in the shop about that book, for of course it is a forbidden one."
I rejoiced; this must be one of the books of which the priest had spoken to me in the confessional.
We supped languidly, without the usual noise and talk, as if something important had occurred and we could not keep from thinking about it, and after supper, when we were going to bed, Jikharev said to me, as he drew forth the book:
"Come, read it once more!"
Several men rose from their beds, came to the table, and sat themselves round it, undressed as they were, with their legs crossed.
And again when I had finished reading, Jikharev said, strumming his fingers on the table:
"That is a living picture of him! Ach, devil, devil—that's how he is, brothers, eh?"