He had long been aware of Andrey Antonovitch's literary peccadilloes.

He was generally summoned to listen to secret _tete-a-tete_ readings of his novel; he would sit like a post for six hours at a stretch, perspiring and straining his utmost to keep awake and smile.

On reaching home he would groan with his long-legged and lanky wife over their benefactor's unhappy weakness for Russian literature.
Andrey Antonovitch looked with anguish at Blum.
"I beg you to leave me alone, Blum," he began with agitated haste, obviously anxious to avoid any renewal of the previous conversation which had been interrupted by Pyotr Stepanovitch.
"And yet this may be arranged in the most delicate way and with no publicity; you have full power." Blum respectfully but obstinately insisted on some point, stooping forward and coming nearer and nearer by small steps to Andrey Antonovitch.
"Blum, you are so devoted to me and so anxious to serve me that I am always in a panic when I look at you." "You always say witty things, and sleep in peace satisfied with what you've said, but that's how you damage yourself." "Blum, I have just convinced myself that it's quite a mistake, quite a mistake." "Not from the words of that false, vicious young man whom you suspect yourself?
He has won you by his flattering praise of your talent for literature." "Blum, you understand nothing about it; your project is absurd, I tell you.

We shall find nothing and there will be a fearful upset and laughter too, and then Yulia Mihailovna..." "We shall certainly find everything we are looking for." Blum advanced firmly towards him, laying his right hand on his heart.

"We will make a search suddenly early in the morning, carefully showing every consideration for the person himself and strictly observing all the prescribed forms of the law.