who at times of spiritual suffering feel a craving for movement.
After standing for five minutes by his wife, he walked, raising his
right foot high, from the bedroom into a little room which was half
filled up by a big sofa; from there he went into the kitchen. After
wandering by the stove and the cook's bed he bent down and went by
a little door into the passage.

There he saw again the white scarf and the white face.

"At last," sighed Abogin, reaching towards the door-handle. "Let
us go, please."

The doctor started, glanced at him, and remembered. . . .

"Why, I have told you already that I can't go!" he said, growing
more animated. "How strange!"

"Doctor, I am not a stone, I fully understand your position . . .
I feel for you," Abogin said in an imploring voice, laying his hand
on his scarf. "But I am not asking you for myself. My wife is dying.
If you had heard that cry, if you had seen her face, you would
understand my pertinacity. My God, I thought you had gone to get
ready! Doctor, time is precious. Let us go, I entreat you."

"I cannot go," said Kirilov emphatically and he took a step into
the drawing-room.

Abogin followed him and caught hold of his sleeve.

"You are in sorrow, I understand. But I'm not asking you to a case