Chapter 32 Chapter Thirteen Makeup (2)

Posing!hypocrite!It's no wonder that he is the one who takes revenge on the people!However, at this moment, there was a hint of secret joy in his heart, a secret joy that he couldn't resist.He is familiar with that feeling, it is the secret joy in the heart of a spendthrift husband.Of course, this is not something to be proud of, and he should be ashamed of his reckless behavior.Every time, when he returned home after losing everything, confessed to his wife, and listened to her with his head bowed, he swore that he would never gamble again.What he said was sincere.However, only God can see. In his heart, under this sincerity, he knows that he is right and his wife is wrong.Money is meant to be spent, and in terms of the way it is spent, what could be purer than gambling?

Matrona held out her hand now.In her palm was the mere fifty-kopeck piece.She couldn't seem to decide whom to give the money to.He gently pushed her hand towards Nechayev. "Give it to him, he needs money." Nechayev pocketed the money. All right.It's over.Now it was his turn to be reduced to nothing; it was Nechayev's turn to bow his head to the contempt of others.What can he say?No, there is nothing to say. Nechayev didn't mind waiting any longer.He fastened his blue coat. "Hide this somewhere," he ordered Matrona—"don't hide in the building—find another place." He handed her his hat and wig, and pinned his pant legs to clean Putting on a coat in his small boots, he absently patted his head while putting it on. "Too much time wasted," he murmured, "you've—" He picked up the fur hat that was lying on the chair, and went to the door.Then he turned around as if remembering something. "You're an interesting man, Fyodor Mikhailovitch. If you had a daughter of her age, I wouldn't mind marrying her. I'm sure she'd be a very special girl. As for your stepson, that's a different story, he's nothing like you. I can't tell what I did to him, anyway, he didn't--you know--done what he had to do. It's In my opinion, it's not worth it."

"What does he have to bear?" "He's a bit too much of a saint. You lit a candle for him, and you were right." As Nechayev spoke, he brushed the candle lazily with one hand, causing the flames to flicker wildly.Now, he put a finger straight up to the flame, and stopped there.A few seconds passed.One second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds.He didn't change his face, and concentrated on it. Nechayev moved his finger away. "That's what he can't handle. Honestly, he's too timid." Nechayev opened his arms to Matrona and embraced her.Matrona greeted him without reservation, and leaned her golden head against his chest, responding to his embrace.

"Be on the lookout, be on the lookout!" Nechayev whispered meaningfully, waving his burned finger at him over her head, and went away. It took a long time before he realized the strange syllables that Nechayev had just said.Even so, he still couldn't figure out what it meant.Be vigilant: Be wary of what? At this moment Matrona was already at the window and craned her neck to look out into the street.Her eyes were soon filled with tears, and she was so excited that she didn't know sadness. "Will he be all right, don't you think?" she asked.Before he had time to answer, she said again: "Can I walk with him? He can pretend that he has bad eyesight, and I will pretend to lead him on the walk." This was really just a whim of hers.

He moved close to her and stood behind her.It was overcast outside and it was snowing again.After a while, her mother should be back. "Do you like him?" he asked. "Ok." "He leads a busy life, doesn't he?" "Ok." She was hardly listening to him.What an unfair game!How can he compare with these young people?They come and go without a trace, full of adventure and mystery.They lived busy lives, busy indeed: Matrona should really be on her guard. "Why do you like him so much, Matrona?" "Because he's Pavel Alexandrovitch's best friend."

"Really?" He retorted her gently. "I think I was Pavel Alexandrovitch's real friend. I continued to be his friend when everyone had forgotten him. I was his friend all my life." She turned her head from the window and looked at him strangely, as if about to say something.But what would she say? "You're just Pavel Alexandrovitch's stepfather." Or quite differently, "Don't use that tone when you're talking to me." He wanted to push the hair from Matrona's cheeks aside.But then he realized how embarrassing it was for him.Matrona flickered at once, trying to slip under his arm.He stopped her entirely, barring her way. "I have to go..." she whispered, "I have to go and hide these clothes."

He didn't move, and continued to block her for a while, until he felt her soften, and then moved away. "Throw them in the toilet," he said. "No one will see it there." She sniffed. "Throw it in?" she said, "Throw it in..." "Yes, do as I say. Either you give them to me and I'll throw them for you. Go back to bed and lie down." For Nechayev.No.just for you. He wrapped his clothes in a towel and sneaked downstairs to the bathroom.But when he got there he changed his mind.Clothes were thrown in human feces.What if you underestimate those who collect the shit?

He walked out the door.He found the janitor of the apartment secretly watching him in the small room, and his head naturally turned to the street following his figure.Only then did he realize that he was not wearing a coat when he went out.So he turned back and climbed the stairs again.Almost at the same time, he met Amalia Karlovna, who lived on the first floor.She was holding a plate of cinnamon cake as if to welcome him. "Good afternoon, sir," she said politely.He mumbled back the salute, and quickly walked around her upstairs. What is he looking for?Find a hole, find a crack, and stuff these things that were unexpectedly thrown at him.Forget them from now on, never see them again.There was simply no reason for him to be in the situation he was in now, like a girl holding a dead child, or a murderer holding a bloody axe.Involuntarily he began to be angry with Nechayev again.Why should I risk it for you, he wanted to cry out, who are you to me.But it's too late to say anything now.The moment he took the package from Matrona, the task was transferred.There was no turning back for him.

At the end of the passage, there was an empty room, a pile of plaster and rubble.He pawed half-heartedly with the toe of his boot.Outside, a worker shoveling mud looked at him suspiciously through the open door. At least, there will be no Ivanov around him anymore, but maybe Ivanov has been replaced by someone else now.Who will be the new spy?Is this the worker who stared straight at him?Or the apartment janitor? He tucked the package into his jacket and headed down the street again.The wind was cold, like a wall of ice.He turned the first corner, and then another.He went into a dark alley where he had seen the dog.Today, there are no dogs in the alleys.Could it be that the dog died the night he abandoned it?

He tucks the package into a corner.The curly hair pinned to the hat in the package suddenly fluttered in the wind, which was ridiculous and ominous.Where did Nechayev get those curls—from some sister?How many sisters does he have?Would they all be willing to give him their maiden curls? He removed the pins from the hat, tried in vain to tear it in two, rolled it up and stuffed it into the drain where the dog had been tied.He tried to tuck his clothes in, but found that the tube was too narrow. He felt eyes staring at him from behind.He turned his head away.In the window on the second floor, there were indeed two children looking down at him.Behind them, there is a third person standing vaguely, who is taller.

He tried to get the hat out of the tube, but found it out of reach.He cursed his own stupidity.If the pipe is blocked, the water will overflow. If you investigate, you can find the cap.Who'd stuff a hat down a drain--who would but a wicked person? He thought of Ivanov again.Ivanov, he thought of him so often that his name was to him what the hat was to him.Ivanov was murdered.But Ivanov didn't wear a hat, or a woman's hat at all.Therefore, this hat will not be found on Ivanov.On the other hand, isn't it possible that the hat belonged to Ivanov's murderer?How easy it is for a woman to kill a man: lure him down the alley, accept his embrace with his back against the wall, and then, on the climax of doing it, feel the man's ribs and stick the hat pin in his Just in the heart—a hat needle would suffice, there wouldn't be a single drop of blood, just a wound the size of the pinhole. He knelt in the corner just now, searching all over the floor for the hat pin that he had torn off.It was too dark for him to find anything.He needs a candle.However, in such a wind, what candle can stand it? He was exhausted, and it was not easy to move his legs.Is he sick?Infected by Matrona?Or is it a seizure?Showing this exhausted state? He lifted his head on all fours and breathed the air like a wild animal.He held his breath and tried to support himself.But if it had been a seizure that had struck him, it would have knocked him out.His sensations were as cold and numb as his limbs.