"Why not?"
The large blue eyes commanded. Yevsey had not the power to disobey the look. Turning his face aside he mumbled:
"I—I—I have no permission—to take anything from you—or to converse with you. I am going away."
"Yes, go away," the author commanded, and for some reason smiled a morose smile.
Klimkov took the grey envelope, and walked away, without asking himself where he was going. He held the envelope in his right hand on a level with his breast, as if it were something murderous, threatening unknown misfortune. His fingers ached as from cold.
"What is going to happen to me?" knocked importunately at his brain.
Suddenly he noticed the envelope was not sealed. This amazed him. He stopped, looked around, and quickly removed the letter.
"Take this dunce away from me. Mironov," he read.
He heaved a sigh of relief.
"I must give this to Maklakov. He will scold me. Maybe I ought to turn back. But it's not necessary. Somebody else will come soon anyway."