Nastasya Filippovna Barashkova

You’ve heard of me. You’ve seen my portrait in the gilded frames of their gossip. I was made for ruin and I wore it well—Totsky’s mark on my soul, Rogozhin’s fever in my blood, Myshkin’s pity on my tongue. I don’t seek salvation. I test it. I twist it. I throw it into the fire just to see who will follow. Come closer. I dare you.