o mad, if I stay here!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

"It reminds me," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, "of the famous plea
of a certain lawyer who lately defended a man for murdering six people
in order to rob them. He excused his client on the score of poverty.
'It is quite natural,' he said in conclusion, 'considering the state
of misery he was in, that he should have thought of murdering these six
people; which of you, gentlemen, would not have done the same in his
place?'"

"Enough," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger,
"we have had enough of this balderdash!"

In a state of terrible excitement she threw back her head, with flaming
eyes, casting looks of contempt and defiance upon the whole company,
in which she could no longer distinguish friend from foe. She had
restrained herself so long that she felt forced to vent her rage on
somebody. Those who knew Lizabetha Prokofievna saw at once how it was
with her. "She flies into these rages sometimes," said Ivan Fedorovitch
to Prince S. the next day, "but she is not often so violent as she was
yesterday; it does not happen more than once in three years."

"Be quiet, Ivan Fedorovitch! Leave me alone!" cried Mrs. Epanchin. "Why
do you offer me your arm now? You had not sense enough to take me away
before. You are my husband, you are a father, it was your duty to drag
me away by force, if in my folly I refused to obey you and go quietly.
You might at least have thought of your daughters. We can find our
way out now without your help. Here is shame enough for a year! Wait
a moment 'till I thank the prince! Thank you, prince, for the
entertainment you have given us! It was most amusing to hear these young
men... It is vile, vile! A chaos, a scandal, worse than a nightmare!
Is it possible that there can be many such people on earth? Be quiet,
Aglaya! Be quiet, Alexandra! It is none of your business! Don't fuss
round me like that, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you exasperate me! So, my dear,"
she cried, addressing the prince, "you go so far as to beg their
pardon! He says, 'Forgive me for offering you a fortune.' And you, you
mountebank, what are you laughing at?" she cried, turning suddenly on
Lebedeff's nephew. "'We refuse ten thousand roubles; we do not beseech,
we demand!' As if he did not know that this idiot will call on them
tomorrow to renew his offers of money and friendship. You will, won't
you? You will? Come, will you, or won't you?"

"I shall,