And if we ever come to be friends, Pyotr Stepanovitch, and, for my part, I sincerely hope we may, especially as I am so deeply indebted to you, then, perhaps you'll understand...." "Oh, I assure you, I hope for it too," Pyotr Stepanovitch muttered jerkily.
"You'll understand then the impulse which leads one in the blindness of generous feeling to take up a man who is unworthy of one in every respect, a man who utterly fails to understand one, who is ready to torture one at every opportunity and, in contradiction to everything, to exalt such a man into a sort of ideal, into a dream.

To concentrate in him all one's hopes, to bow down before him; to love him all one's life, absolutely without knowing why--perhaps just because he was unworthy of it....

Oh, how I've suffered all my life, Pyotr Stepanovitch!" Stepan Trofimovitch, with a look of suffering on his face, began trying to catch my eye, but I turned away in time.
"...

And only lately, only lately--oh, how unjust I've been to Nicolas! ...

You would not believe how they have been worrying me on all sides, all, all, enemies, and rascals, and friends, friends perhaps more than enemies.