belong to you. Every person has only the right to make use of his
own property; if he takes anyone else's . . . he is a bad man!" ("I
am not saying the right thing!" thought Yevgeny Petrovitch.) "For
instance, Natalya Semyonovna has a box with her clothes in it.
That's her box, and we--that is, you and I--dare not touch it,
as it is not ours. That's right, isn't it? You've got toy horses
and pictures. . . . I don't take them, do I? Perhaps I might like
to take them, but . . . they are not mine, but yours!"

"Take them if you like!" said Seryozha, raising his eyebrows. "Please
don't hesitate, papa, take them! That yellow dog on your table is
mine, but I don't mind. . . . Let it stay."

"You don't understand me," said Bykovsky. "You have given me the
dog, it is mine now and I can do what I like with it; but I didn't
give you the tobacco! The tobacco is mine." ("I am not explaining
properly!" thought the prosecutor. "It's wrong! Quite wrong!") "If
I want to smoke someone else's tobacco, I must first of all ask his
permission. . . ."

Languidly linking one phrase on to another and imitating the language
of the nursery, Bykovsky tried to explain to his son the meaning
of property. Seryozha gazed at his chest and listened attentively
(he liked talking to his father in the evening), then he leaned his
elbow on the edge of the table and began screwing up his short-sighted
eyes at the papers and the inkstand. His eyes strayed over the table
and rested on the gum-bottle.

"Papa, what is gum made of?" he asked suddenly, putting the bottle
to his eyes.