Why, they’ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That’s as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year go... that way... to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory... Once you’ve said ‘percentage’ there’s nothing more to worry about. If we had any other word... maybe we might feel more uneasy... But what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another one if not that one?

“But where am I going?” he thought suddenly. “Strange, I came out for something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out... I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That’s what it was...