I remained, and we spent more than two hours together.

In conversation he recalled that Blum had taken with him two manifestoes he had found.
"Manifestoes!" I said, foolishly frightened.

"Do you mean to say you..." "Oh, ten were left here," he answered with vexation (he talked to me at one moment in a vexed and haughty tone and at the next with dreadful plaintiveness and humiliation), "but I had disposed of eight already, and Blum only found two." And he suddenly flushed with indignation.
"_Vous me mettez avec ces gens-la!_ Do you suppose I could be working with those scoundrels, those anonymous libellers, with my son Pyotr Stepanovitch, _avec ces esprits forts de lachete ?_ Oh, heavens!" "Bah! haven't they mixed you up perhaps ?...

But it's nonsense, it can't be so," I observed.
_"Savez-vous,"_ broke from him suddenly, "I feel at moments _que je ferai la-bas quelque esclandre._ Oh, don't go away, don't leave me alone! _Ma carriere est finie aujourd'hui, je le sens._ Do you know, I might fall on somebody there and bite him, like that lieutenant." He looked at me with a strange expression--alarmed, and at the same time anxious to alarm me.

He certainly was getting more and more exasperated with somebody and about something as time went on and the police-cart did not appear; he was positively wrathful.