When the Time Comes
"Dounia," he wailed, trying to sit up in bed, "I hate being an invalid! I won't be an invalid! Let me get up. Please, darling," he added coaxingly.
But sensible Dounia shook her head. "Oh, no. You are ill, and you shall not move from that bed until Zossimov says you're quite well again."
"At sixty years, I don't trust Zossimov to correctly diagnose a cat," Razumihin said sulkily. "I don't believe he can see out of those funny little spectacles. He'll tell me to take this and that and it won't do a damned bit of good."
"At sixty years, I don't think Zossimov trusts you to take care of yourself properly any more than you trust him to take care of you. Now lie down. You're tiring yourself, and you're making your fluffy white hair stand on end."
"Is it? It is not."
"Dimitri..."
"Very well, very well." Razumihin settled back comfortably into the bed. "But if I am an invalid after all, I intend to take advantage of it."
"I'll wait on you hand and foot if you'll only get well."
"Mmhmm. I think my pillow's gone flat."
Dounia took it, laughing as she plumped it. "You're impossible."
"It's an art, and don't you forget it!"
"I shan't, Dimitri." She stroked his thin white hair and tried not to cry.
Chapter Four.
Back to Chapter Two.