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evant details. Grushenka crimsoned and her eyes flashed.
The envelope with the notes in it she had not seen, but
had only heard from ‘that wicked wretch’ that Fyodor Pav-
lovitch had an envelope with notes for three thousand in it.
‘But that was all foolishness. I was only laughing. I wouldn’t
have gone to him for anything.’
‘To whom are you referring as ‘that wicked wretch’?’ in-
quired the prosecutor.
‘The lackey, Smerdyakov, who murdered his master and
hanged himself last night.’
She was, of course, at once asked what ground she had
for such a definite accusation; but it appeared that she, too,
had no grounds for it.
‘Dmitri Fyodorovitch told me so himself; you can believe
him. The woman who came between us has ruined him; she
is the cause of it all, let me tell you,’ Grushenka added. She
seemed to be quivering with hatred, and there was a vindic-
tive note in her voice.
She was again asked to whom she was referring.
‘The young lady, Katerina Ivanovna there. She sent for
me, offered me chocolate, tried to fascinate me. There’s not
much true shame about her, I can tell you that..’
At this point the President checked her sternly, begging
her to moderate her language. But the jealous woman’s
heart was burning, and she did not care what she did.
‘When the prisoner was arrested at Mokroe,’ the pros-
ecutor asked, ‘everyone saw and heard you run out of the
next room and cry out: ‘It’s all my fault. We’ll go to Siberia
together!’ So you already believed him to have murdered

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