Just then Lebedeff returned, having put on his coat.
“Five weeks!” said he, wiping his eyes. “Only five weeks! Poor orphans!”
“But why wear a coat in holes,” asked the girl, “when your new one is hanging behind the door? Did you not see it?”
“Hold your tongue, dragon-fly!” he scolded. “What a plague you are!” He stamped his foot irritably, but she only laughed, and answered:
“Are you trying to frighten me? I am not Tania, you know, and I don’t intend to run away. Look, you are waking Lubotchka, and she will have convulsions again. Why do you shout like that?”
“Well, well! I won’t again,” said the master of the house, his anxiety getting the better of his temper. He went up to his daughter, and looked at the child in her arms, anxiously making the sign of the cross over her three times. “God bless her! God bless her!” he cried with emotion. “This little creature is my daughter Luboff,” addressing the prince. “My wife, Helena, died—at her birth; and this is my big daughter Vera, in mourning, as you see; and this, this, oh, this,” pointing to the young man on the divan...
“Well, go on! never mind me!” mocked the other. “Don’t be afraid!”
“Excellency! Have you read that account of the murder of the Zemarin family, in the newspaper?” cried Lebedeff, all of a sudden.
“Yes,” said Muishkin, with some surprise.
“Well, that is the murderer! It is he—in fact—”