Page 192 - the-idiot

him in terms of reproach.
Marfa Borisovna was about forty years of age. She wore
a dressing-jacket, her feet were in slippers, her face paint-
ed, and her hair was in dozens of small plaits. No sooner
did she catch sight of Ardalion Alexandrovitch than she
screamed:
‘There he is, that wicked, mean wretch! I knew it was he!
My heart misgave me!’
The old man tried to put a good face on the affair.
‘Come, let us go in—it’s all right,’ he whispered in the
prince’s ear.
But it was more serious than he wished to think. As soon
as the visitors had crossed the low dark hall, and entered
the narrow reception-room, furnished with half a dozen
cane chairs, and two small card-tables, Madame Terentieff,
in the shrill tones habitual to her, continued her stream of
invectives.
‘Are you not ashamed? Are you not ashamed? You barbar-
ian! You tyrant! You have robbed me of all I possessed—you
have sucked my bones to the marrow. How long shall I be
your victim? Shameless, dishonourable man!’
‘Marfa Borisovna! Marfa Borisovna! Here is ... the Prince
Muishkin! General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin,’ stam-
mered the disconcerted old man.
‘Would you believe,’ said the mistress of the house, sud-
denly addressing the prince, ‘would you believe that that
man has not even spared my orphan children? He has
stolen everything I possessed, sold everything, pawned ev-
erything; he has left me nothing—nothing! What am I to do

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