CHAPTER VI.
WHEN Foma arrived in the city he was seized with sad, revengeful anger.
He was burning with a passionate desire to insult Medinskaya, to abuse her.

His teeth firmly set together, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked for a few hours in succession about the deserted rooms of his house, he sternly knitted his brow, and constantly threw his chest forward.

His breast was too narrow to hold his heart, which was filled with wrath.

He stamped the floor with heavy and measured steps, as though he were forging his anger.
"The vile wretch--disguised herself as an angel!" Pelageya vividly arose in his memory, and he whispered malignantly and bitterly: "Though a fallen woman, she is better.

She did not play the hypocrite.
She at once unfolded her soul and her body, and her heart is surely just as her breast--white and sound." Sometimes Hope would whisper timidly in his ear: "Perhaps all that was said of her was a lie." But he recalled the eager certainty of his godfather, and the power of his words, and this thought perished.