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FÉDYA. What have I written?... [Takes the letter and is about to tear it
up] It's no longer wanted now.
MÁSHA [snatches the letter] You've said you would kill yourself? Yes?
You did not mention the revolver--only said that you'd kill yourself?
FÉDYA. Yes, that I should be no more.
MÁSHA. Give it me--give it, give it!... Have you read What to Do?
FÉDYA. I think I have.
MÁSHA. It's a tiresome novel, but there's one very, very good thing in
it. That what's his name?--Rakhmánov--goes and pretends he has drowned
himself. And you--can you swim?
FÉDYA. No.
MÁSHA. That's all right. Let me have your clothes--everything, and your
pocket-book too.
FÉDYA. How can I?
MÁSHA. Wait a bit, wait, wait! Let's go home; then you'll change your
clothes.
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