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著者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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There are no facts... it's all supposition! You produce facts!
The flat even isn't a fact but delirium. I know what to say to
them.... Do they know about the flat? I won't go without finding
out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a
fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that's right; to play the
invalid.... He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I
come?"
All this flashed like lightning through his mind.
Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more
jovial.
"Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather.... And I
am out of sorts altogether," he began in quite a different tone,
laughing to Razumihin.
"Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting
point. Who got the best of it?"
"Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions,
floated off into space."
"Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is
such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off."

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