“ You don’t know what anger is!” laughed Rogojin, in reply to the prince’s heated words.
He had moved a pace or two away, and was hiding his hands behind him.
“ No, it is impossible for me to come to your house again,” he added slowly.
“ Why? Do you hate me so much as all that?”
“ I don’t love you, Lef Nicolaievitch, and, therefore, what would be the use of my coming to see you? You are just like a child—you want a plaything, and it must be taken out and given you—and then you don’t know how to work it. You are simply repeating all you said in your letter, and what’s the use? Of course I believe every word you say, and I know perfectly well that you neither did or ever can deceive me in any way, and yet, I don’t love you. You write that you’ve forgotten everything, and only remembe
