"Well, you may believe it or not," he concluded unexpectedly at last, "but I'm convinced that he not only knows every detail of 'our' position, but that he knows something else besides, something neither you nor I know yet, and perhaps never shall, or shall only know when it's too late, when there's no turning back!..." I said nothing, but these words suggested a great deal.

For five whole days after that we did not say one word about Liputin; it was clear to me that Stepan Trofimovitch greatly regretted having let his tongue run away with him, and having revealed such suspicions before me.
II One morning, on the seventh or eighth day after Stepan Trofimovitch had consented to become "engaged," about eleven o'clock, when I was hurrying as usual to my afflicted friend, I had an adventure on the way.
I met Karmazinov, "the great writer," as Liputin called him.

I had read Karmazinov from a child.

His novels and tales were well known to the past and even to the present generation.

I revelled in them; they were the great enjoyment of my childhood and youth.