He had never before ventured to express himself in such language in his master's presence.
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and crossed the lane, sinking five or six inches into the mud at every step.
He came out at last into a long deserted street.

He knew the town like the five fingers of his hand, but Bogoyavlensky Street was a long way off.

It was past ten when he stopped at last before the locked gates of the dark old house that belonged to Filipov.

The ground floor had stood empty since the Lebyadkins had left it, and the windows were boarded up, but there was a light burning in Shatov's room on the second floor.

As there was no bell he began banging on the gate with his hand.