Page 668 - the-brothers-karamazov

and impulsively jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket.
But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood,
too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe Grigory’s
face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not
merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball
and could not be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on
the floor.
‘Oh, damn it!’ he said. ‘Haven’t you a rag of some sort...
to wipe my face?’
‘So you’re only stained, not wounded? You’d better wash,’
said Pyotr Ilyitch. ‘Here’s a wash-stand. I’ll pour you out
some water.’
‘A wash-stand? That’s all right... but where am I to put
this?’
With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of
hundred-rouble notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch
as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitya, was to
do with his own money.
‘In your pocket, or on the table here. They won’t be lost.’
‘In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right.... But, I say,
that’s all nonsense,’ he cried, as though suddenly com-
ing out of his absorption. ‘Look here, let’s first settle that
business of the pistols. Give them back to me. Here’s your
money... because I am in great need of them... and I haven’t
a minute, a minute to spare.’
And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it
out to Pyotr Ilyitch.
‘But I shan’t have change enough. Haven’t you less?’
‘No,’ said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as