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‘How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmitch?’ cried Mitya
effusively.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Samsonov, inclining his head.
‘But you don’t know, you’ve saved me. Oh, it was a true
presentiment brought me to you.... So now to this priest!
‘No need of thanks.’
‘I’ll make haste and fly there. I’m afraid I’ve overtaxed
your strength. I shall never forget it. It’s a Russian says that,
Kuzma Kuzmitch, a R-r-russian!’
‘To be sure!’ Mitya seized his hand to press it, but there
was a malignant gleam in the old man’s eye. Mitya drew
back his hand, but at once blamed himself for his mistrust-
fulness. ‘It’s because he’s tired,’ he thought.
‘For her sake! For her sake, Kuzma Kuzmitch! You un-
derstand that it’s for her,’ he cried, his voice ringing through
the room. He bowed, turned sharply round, and with the
same long stride walked to the door without looking back.
He was trembling with delight.
‘Everything was on the verge of ruin and my guardian
angel saved me,’ was the thought in his mind. And if such
a business man as Samsonov (a most worthy old man, and
what dignity!) had suggested this course, then... then suc-
cess was assured. He would fly off immediately. ‘I will be
back before night, I shall be back at night and the thing is
done. Could the old man have been laughing at me?’ ex-
claimed Mitya, as he strode towards his lodging. He could,
of course, imagine nothing but that the advice was practical
‘from such a business man’ with an understanding of the
business, with an understanding of this Lyagavy (curious

The Brothers Karamazov