"It's quite simple. I wanted to be rich, so I took it, that is all, there's nothing else, and I was always like that."
The jury began to whisper together; their faces grew dark and displeasure appeared on the features of the judges. The room was still; from the street came the dull regular sound of footsteps on the pavement; soldiers were marching by outside.
"In view of the prisoner's confession," said the Prosecutor.
Ilya felt he could sit still no longer. He got up, and took a step forward.
"Sh—silence!" said the usher loudly. He sat down again and hung his head like Pavel. He could not see Petrusha's red face, now puffed out importantly, and apparently annoyed at something; but for all the unaltered friendliness of Gromov's face, he saw a cold heart behind the kind demeanour of the judge, and he understood that this cheerful man was accustomed to condemn men and women as a joiner is to plane boards. And an angry, oppressive thought rose in Ilya's mind:
"If I confessed, it would be the same with me. Petrusha would judge; to the prison with me, while he stays here."
At this he stopped and sat there, to listen, seeing nobody.
"I will not have you speak of it," came in a trembling, sorrowful cry from Vyera; she screamed, cried, caught at her breast, and tore the kerchief from her head.
"I will not. I will not."
A confused noise filled the room.