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really tight in the shoulders.
‘Damn it all! I can hardly button it,’ Mitya grumbled. ‘Be
so good as to tell Mr. Kalganov from me that I didn’t ask for
his clothes, and it’s not my doing that they’ve dressed me
up like a clown.’
‘He understands that, and is sorry... I mean, not sorry
to lend you his clothes, but sorry about all this business,’
mumbled Nikolay Parfenovitch.
‘Confound his sorrow! Well, where now? Am I to go on
sitting here?’
He was asked to go back to the ‘other room.’ Mitya went
in, scowling with anger, and trying to avoid looking at
anyone. Dressed in another man’s clothes he felt himself
disgraced, even in the eyes of the peasants, and of Trifon
Borissovitch, whose face appeared, for some reason, in the
doorway, and vanished immediately. ‘He’s come to look at
me dressed up,’ thought Mitya. He sat down on the same
chair as before. He had an absurd nightmarish feeling, as
though he were out of his mind.
‘Well, what now? Are you going to flog me? That’s all that’s
left for you,’ he said, clenching his teeth and addressing the
prosecutor. He would not turn to Nikolay Parfenovitch, as
though he disdained to speak to him.
‘He looked too closely at my socks, and turned them in-
side out on purpose to show everyone how dirty they were
— the scoundrel!’
‘Well, now we must proceed to the examination of wit-
nesses,’ observed Nikolay Parfenovitch, as though in reply
to Mitya’s question.

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