Fyodor Dostoevsky

“ You see what a man he is"- he turned to the monk- "I'm afraid to go among decent people with him." A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miusov frowned more than ever.
"Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath," flashed through Miusov's mind.
"Here's the hermitage. We've arrived," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "The gates are shut." ”

“ Maximov, a man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head.
"You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own," observed Miusov severely. ”

“ They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies with a stick," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps.
"The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal that's told is foolishness. He never thrashed anyone," answered the monk. "Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you."
"Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave properly or I will pay you out!" Miusov had time to mutter again.
"I can't think why you are so agitated," Fyodor Pavlovitch observed sarcastically. "Are you uneasy about your sins? ”