He was always full of forebodings, was afraid of something unexpected and inevitable; he had become timorous; he began to pay great attention to his dreams.
He spent all that day and evening in great depression, he sent for me, was very much agitated, talked a long while, gave me a long account of things, but all rather disconnected.

Varvara Petrovna had known for a long time that he concealed nothing from me.

It seemed to me at last that he was worried about something particular, and was perhaps unable to form a definite idea of it himself.

As a rule when we met _tete-a-tete_ and he began making long complaints to me, a bottle was almost always brought in after a little time, and things became much more comfortable.
This time there was no wine, and he was evidently struggling all the while against the desire to send for it.
"And why is she always so cross ?" he complained every minute, like a child.

_"Tous les hommes de genie et de progres en Russie etaient, sont, et seront toujours des_ gamblers _et des_ drunkards _qui boivent_ in outbreaks...