“You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all worthy of your kindness.” “Not worthy! She’s not worthy of it!” Katerina Ivanovna cried again with the same warmth. “You know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we’re fanciful, we’re self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We’re noble, we’re generous, Alexey Fyodorovitch, let me tell you. We have only been unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy, perhaps, or fickle man. There was one man—one, an officer too, we loved him, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago, and he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a widower, he has written, he is coming here, and, do you know, we’ve loved him, none but him, all this time, and we’ve loved him all our life! He will come, and Grushenka will be happy again. For the last five years she’s been wretched. But who can reproach her, who can boast of her favor? Only that bedridden old merchant, but he is more like her father, her friend, her protector. He found her then in despair, in agony, deserted by the man she loved. She was ready to drown herself then, but the old merchant saved her—saved her!” “You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry about everything,” Grushenka drawled again. “Defend you! Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you? Grushenka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming soft little hand, Alexey Fyodorovitch! Look at it! It has brought me happiness and has lifted me up, and I’m going to kiss it, outside and inside, here, here, here!” And three times she kissed the certainly charming, though rather fat, hand of Grushenka in a sort of rapture. She held out her hand with a charming musical, nervous little laugh, watched the “sweet young lady,” and obviously liked having her hand kissed. “Perhaps there’s rather too much rapture,” thought Alyosha. He blushed. He felt a peculiar uneasiness at heart the whole time. “You won’t make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this before Alexey Fyodorovitch.” “Do you think I meant to make you blush?” said Katerina Ivanovna, somewhat surprised. “Ah, my dear, how little you understand me!” “Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe I’m not so good as I seem to you. I’ve a bad heart; I will have my own way. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for fun.” “But now you’ll save him. You’ve given me your word. You’ll explain it all to him. You’ll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is now offering you his hand.” “Oh, no! I didn’t give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking about that. I didn’t give you my word.” “Then I didn’t quite understand you,” said Katerina Ivanovna slowly, turning a little pale. “You promised—”