disgust he had then felt. "Oh, dear! oh, dear! how disgusting,"

he cried aloud as he had done then. "Only a scoundrel, a knave,

could do such a thing. And I am that knave, that scoundrel!" He

went on aloud: "But is it possible?"--he stopped and stood

still--"is it possible that I am really a scoundrel? . . .

Well, who but I?" he answered himself. "And then, is this the

only thing?" he went on, convicting himself. "Was not my conduct

towards Mary Vasilievna and her husband base and disgusting? And