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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria
Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why do you call yourself a
scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterday."
"Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "In
all this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at
night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to
fancy I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is
not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake,
because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be
glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not
the chief motive for my decision...."
"She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails
vindictively. "Proud creature! She won't admit she wants to do it
out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love
as though they hate.... Oh, how I... hate them all!"

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