an ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never
dreaming that two destitute and defenceless women could escape from
his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and
conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who
had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to
self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and
capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his image in
the glass. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had
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