Fyodor Dostoevsky. The insulted and injured (№ 273726)

He enjoyed his ridicule of me; he played with me like a cat with a mouse, assuming I'm at his mercy. It seemed to me (and I knew it) that he found some pleasure, some, maybe even lust in their meanness and in this insolence, in the cynicism with which he broke, finally, in front of me your mask. He wanted to enjoy my surprise, my horror.