"Ah!" There was a clang of a glass door, probably of a cupboard,
and again all was still. After waiting five minutes Kirilov left
off scrutinizing his hands and raised his eyes to the door by which
Abogin had vanished.

In the doorway stood Abogin, but he was not the same as when he had
gone out. The look of sleekness and refined elegance had disappeared
--his face, his hands, his attitude were contorted by a revolting
expression of something between horror and agonizing physical pain.
His nose, his lips, his moustache, all his features were moving and
seemed trying to tear themselves from his face, his eyes looked as
though they were laughing with agony. . . .

Abogin took a heavy stride into the drawing-room, bent forward,
moaned, and shook his fists.

"She has deceived me," he cried, with a strong emphasis on the
second syllable of the verb. "Deceived me, gone away. She fell ill
and sent me for the doctor only to run away with that clown
Paptchinsky! My God!"

Abogin took a heavy step towards the doctor, held out his soft white
fists in his face, and shaking them went on yelling:

"Gone away! Deceived me! But why this deception? My God! My God!
What need of this dirty, scoundrelly trick, this diabolical, snakish
farce? What have I done to her? Gone away!"

Tears gushed from his eyes. He turned on one foot and began pacing