At last Shatov got up from his chair and the others jumped up at once.

They went out without saying good-bye.

Shigalov only said in the doorway to Shatov, who was seeing him out: "Remember that you are bound to give an explanation." "Hang your explanation, and who the devil am I bound to ?" said Shatov.
He showed them out and fastened the door with the latch.
"Snipes!" he said, looking at me, with a sort of wry smile.
His face looked angry, and it seemed strange to me that he spoke first.
When I had been to see him before (which was not often) it had usually happened that he sat scowling in a corner, answered ill-humouredly and only completely thawed and began to talk with pleasure after a considerable time.

Even so, when he was saying good-bye he always scowled, and let one out as though he were getting rid of a personal enemy.
"I had tea yesterday with that Alexey Nilitch," I observed.

"I think he's mad on atheism." "Russian atheism has never gone further than making a joke," growled Shatov, putting up a new candle in place of an end that had burnt out.
"No, this one doesn't seem to me a joker, I think he doesn't know how to talk, let alone trying to make jokes." "Men made of paper! It all comes from flunkeyism of thought," Shatov observed calmly, sitting down on a chair in the corner, and pressing the palms of both hands on his knees.
"There's hatred in it, too," he went on, after a minute's pause.
"They'd be the first to be terribly unhappy if Russia could be suddenly reformed, even to suit their own ideas, and became extraordinarily prosperous and happy.