done with. Thus, too, when the mind is made up. That question is done
with. And the daily concerns, the familiarities of our thought swallow
it up--and the life goes on as before with its mysterious and secret
sides quite out of sight, as they should be. Life is a public thing."

Razumov unlocked his door and took the key out; entered very quietly and
bolted the door behind him carefully.

He thought, "He hears me," and after bolting the door he stood still
holding his breath. There was not a sound. He crossed the bare outer
room, stepping deliberately in the darkness. Entering the other, he felt
all over his table for the matchbox. The silence, but for the groping of
his hand, was profound. Could the fellow be sleeping so soundly?

He struck a light and looked at the bed. Haldin was lying on his back as
before, only both his hands were under his head. His eyes were open. He
stared at the ceiling.

Razumov held the match up. He saw the clear-cut features, the firm
chin, the white forehead and the topknot of fair hair against the white
pillow. There he was, lying flat on his back. Razumov thought suddenly,
"I have walked over his chest."

He continued to stare till the match burnt itself out; then struck
another and lit the lamp in silence without looking towards the bed any
more. He had turned his back on it and was hanging his coat on a peg
when he heard Haldin sigh profoundly, then ask in a tired voice--

"Well! And what have you arranged?"