Have you forgotten, Boris, the old days in Moscow, when we were students and I made you weep with my fiddle?
There was hope for you then.

You had not become a pothouse orator on the rights of the proletariat--the red-combed rooster on the smouldering dungheap! Beauty, no matter in what form, I loved it.

Yes, I was mad about those emeralds.
I was always stealing in to see them, to hold them to the light, simply because they were beautiful." Gregor's hands flew to his throat, which he bared.

"I lured her there! 'Twas I, Boris!...

Those beautiful hands of yours, fit for the butcher's block! Kill me! Kill me!" But Karlov shrank back, covering his eyes.