everything. You say Baburin is an honest fool! Why, is it better, then, to your mind, to be dishonest and clever?'
'You distort my words!' cried Tarhov. 'I only wanted to explain how I understand that person. Do you think he 's such a rare specimen? Not a bit of it! I 've met other people like him in my time. A man sits with an air of importance, silent, obstinate, angular. . . O-ho-ho! say you. It shows that there 's a great deal in him! But there 's nothing in him, not one idea in his head—nothing but a sense of his own dignity.'
'Even if there is nothing else, that 's an honourable thing,' I broke in. 'But let me ask where you have managed to study him like this? You don't know him, do you? Or are you describing him . . . from what Musa tells you?'
Tarhov shrugged his shoulders. 'Musa and I . . . have other things to talk of. I tell you what,' he added, his whole body quivering with impatience,—'I tell you what: if Baburin has such a noble and honest nature, how is it he doesn't see that Musa is not a fit match for him? It 's one of two things: either he knows that what he 's doing to her is something of the nature of an outrage, all in the name of gratitude . . . and if so, what about his honesty?—or he doesn't realise it . . . and in that case, what can one call him but a fool?'
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