If anyone had looked at Tchertop-hanov then; if anyone could have been a witness of the with which he drained glass after glass--he would have felt an involuntary of fear. The night came on, the tallow candle burnt dimly on the table. Tchertop-hanov ceased wandering from corner to corner; he sat all flushed, with dull eyes, which he dropped at one time on the floor, at another on the dark window; he got up, poured out some vodka, drank it off, sat down again, again fixed his eyes on one point, and did not stir--only his breathing grew quicker and his face still more flushed. It seemed as though some resolution were within him, which he was himself ashamed of, but which he was gradually getting used to; one single thought kept obstinately and undeviatingly moving up closer and closer, one single image stood out more and more distinctly, and under the burning weight of heavy drunkenness the angry was replaced by a feeling of ferocity in his heart, and a smile appeared on his lips.  
'Yes, the time has come!' he declared in a matter-of-fact, almost weary tone. 'I must get t............