“Sophya Pavlovna! Enough! I have something to say. I have come to tell you: ‘Enough!’ We must deal fairly, openly. At first you have attracted me to yourself, and now you are fencing away from me. I cannot understand what you say. My mind is dull, but I can feel that you wish to hide yourself. I can see it—do you understand now what brought me here?”
His eyes began to flash and with each word his voice became warmer and louder. She moved her body forward and said with alarm:
“Oh, cease.”
“No, I won’t, I will speak!”
“I know what you want to say.”
“You don’t know it all!” said Foma, threateningly, rising to his feet. “But I know everything about you—everything.”
“Yes? Then the better it is for me,” said Medinskaya, calmly.
She also arose from the couch, as though about to go away somewhere, but after a few seconds she again seated herself on the couch. Her face was serious, her lips were tightly compressed, but her eyes were lowered, and Foma could not see their expression. He thought that when he told her, “I know everything about you!” she would be frightened, she would feel ashamed and confused, would ask his forgiveness for having made sport of him. Then he would embrace her and forgive her. But that was not the case; it was he who was confused by her calmness. He looked at her, searching for words to resume his speech, but found them not.
“It is better,” she repeated firmly and drily. “So you have learned everything, have you? And, of course, you’ve censured me, as I deserve. I understand. I am guilty before you. But no, I cannot justify myself.”
She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.