Perhaps it had not happened--the terrible picture he drew in his mind--since Karlov had not boasted of it.
"Come, Boris.

There is blood on your hands.

What is one more daub of it ?" Karlov stopped, scowled, and ran his fingers through his hair.

Perhaps some ugly memory stirred the roots of it.

"You wish to die!" Gregor bent his head to his hands and Karlov resumed his pacing.