walked with his head erect and his chest squared, he spoke in an
agreeable baritone, and there was a shade of refined almost feminine
elegance in the manner in which he took off his scarf and smoothed
his hair. Even his paleness and the childlike terror with which he
looked up at the stairs as he took off his coat did not detract
from his dignity nor diminish the air of sleekness, health, and
aplomb which characterized his whole figure.

"There is nobody and no sound," he said going up the stairs. "There
is no commotion. God grant all is well."

He led the doctor through the hall into a big drawing-room where
there was a black piano and a chandelier in a white cover; from
there they both went into a very snug, pretty little drawing-room
full of an agreeable, rosy twilight.

"Well, sit down here, doctor, and I . . . will be back directly. I
will go and have a look and prepare them."

Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the agreeably
subdued light and his own presence in the stranger's unfamiliar
house, which had something of the character of an adventure, did
not apparently affect him. He sat in a low chair and scrutinized
his hands, which were burnt with carbolic. He only caught a passing
glimpse of the bright red lamp-shade and the violoncello case, and
glancing in the direction where the clock was ticking he noticed a
stuffed wolf as substantial and sleek-looking as Abogin himself.

It was quiet. . . . Somewhere far away in the adjoining rooms someone
uttered a loud exclamation: