So he a very long while. Now and then he to wake up, and at
such moments he noticed that it was into the night, but it did not
occur to him to up. At last he noticed that it was to get
light. He was on his back, still from his oblivion.
Fearful, rose from the street, which he
heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o’clock. They woke
him up now.
“Ah! the men are out of the taverns,” he thought, “it’s
past two o’clock,” and at once he up, as though someone had
pulled him from the sofa.
“What! Past two o’clock!”
He sat on the sofa--and everything! All at
once, in one flash, he everything.
For the moment he he was going mad. A came
over him; but the was from the that had long in
his sleep. Now he was taken with shivering, so that his
teeth and all his were shaking. He opened the door and
began listening--everything in the house was asleep. With he
gazed at himself and in the room around him, how he
could have come in the night without the door, and have
flung himself on the sofa without undressing, without taking his
hat off. It had off and was on the near his pillow.
“If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I’m drunk
but...”
He to the window. There was light enough, and he hurriedly
looking himself all over from to foot, all his clothes; were there
no traces? But there was no doing it like that; with cold, he
began taking off and looking over again. He everything
over to the last and rags, and himself, through
his search three times.
But there to be nothing, no trace, in one place, where
some thick of blood were to the edge
of his trousers. He up a big and cut off the frayed
threads. There to be nothing more.
Suddenly he that the and the he had taken out of
the old woman’s box were still in his pockets! He had not till
then of taking them out and them! He had not of them
while he was his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed
to take them out and them on the table. When he had out
everything, and the pocket out to be sure there was
nothing left, he the whole to the corner. The paper had
come off the of the and there in tatters. He began
stuffing all the into the under the paper: “They’re in! All
out of sight, and the too!” he gleefully, up and
gazing at the which out more than ever. Suddenly
he all over with horror; “My God!” he in despair:
“what’s the with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide
things?”
He had not on having to hide. He had only of
money, and so had not prepared a hiding-place.
“But now, now, what am I of?” he thought, “Is that things?
My reason’s me--simply!”
He sat on the sofa in and was at once by another
unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he from a chair beside
him his old student’s winter coat, which was still warm though almost in
rags, himself up with it and once more into and
delirium. He consciousness.
Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time,
and at once in a on his again.
“How I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not
taken the off the armhole! I it, a thing like that!
Such a piece of evidence!”
He off the noose, cut it to pieces and the bits
among his under the pillow.
“Pieces of couldn’t suspicion, happened; I
think not, I think not, any way!” he repeated, in the middle
of the room, and with painful he to about
him again, at the and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not
forgotten anything. The that all his faculties, memory,
and the power of were him, to be an
insufferable torture.
“Surely it isn’t already! Surely it isn’t my coming
upon me? It is!”
The he had cut off his were actually on the
floor in the middle of the room, where anyone in would see them!
“What is the with me!” he again, like one distraught.
Then a idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes
were with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many
stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because
his were failing, were going to pieces... his was
clouded.... Suddenly he that there had been blood on the
purse too. “Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put
the wet in my pocket!”
In a he had the pocket out and, yes!--there were
traces, on the of the pocket!
“So my has not me, so I still have some and
memory, since I it of myself,” he triumphantly, with
a of relief; “it’s the of fever, a moment’s
delirium,” and he the whole out of the left pocket of his
trousers. At that the on his left boot; on the
sock which out from the boot, he there were traces! He
flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The of the sock was with
blood;” he must have into that pool.... “But what am I
to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and and pocket?”
He them all up in his hands and in the middle of the
room.
“In the stove? But they would the of all. Burn them?
But what can I them with? There are no matches even. No, better
go out and it all away somewhere. Yes, it away,” he
repeated, on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute,
without lingering...”
But his on the pillow instead. Again the icy
shivering came over him; again he his over him.
And for a long while, for some hours, he was by the to
“go off at once, this moment, and it all away, so that
it may be out of and done with, at once, at once!” Several times
he to from the sofa, but not.
He was up at last by a at his door.
“Open, do, are you or alive? He sleeping here!” shouted
Nastasya, with her on the door. “For whole days together
he’s here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It’s
past ten.”
“Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice.
“Ha! that’s the porter’s voice.... What he want?”
He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The of his was a
positive pain.
“Then who can have the door?” Nastasya. “He’s taken to
bolting himself in! As if he were stealing! Open, you stupid, wake
up!”
“What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open?
Come what may!...”
He rose, and the door.
His room was so small that he the without the
bed. Yes; the and Nastasya were there.
Nastasya at him in a way. He with a and
desperate air at the porter, who without a word out a folded
paper sealed with bottle-wax.
“A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him the paper.
“From what office?”
“A to the police office, of course. You know which office.”
“To the police?... What for?...”
“How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.”
The man looked at him attentively, looked the room and to
go away.
“He’s ill!” Nastasya, not taking her off him.
The his for a moment. “He’s been in a since
yesterday,” she added.
Raskolnikov no response and the paper in his hands, without
opening it. “Don’t you up then,” Nastasya on compassionately,
seeing that he was his from the sofa. “You’re ill, and
so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?”
He looked; in his right hand he the he had cut from his
trousers, the sock, and the of the pocket. So he had been asleep
with them in his hand. Afterwards upon it, he that
half up in his fever, he had all this in his hand
and so asleep again.
“Look at the he’s and with them, as though he has
got of a treasure...”
And Nastasya off into her giggle.
Instantly he them all under his great and his
eyes upon her. Far as he was from being of rational
reflection at that moment, he that no one would like that
with a person who was going to be arrested. “But... the police?”
“You’d have some tea! Yes? I’ll it, there’s some left.”
“No... I’m going; I’ll go at once,” he muttered, on to his feet.
“Why, you’ll downstairs!”
“Yes, I’ll go.”
“As you please.”
She the out.
At once he to the light to the sock and the rags.
“There are stains, but not very noticeable; all with dirt,
and and already discoloured. No one who had no could
distinguish anything. Nastasya from a not have noticed,
thank God!” Then with a he the seal of the notice and began
reading; he was a long while reading, he understood. It was an
ordinary from the police-station to appear that day at
half-past nine at the office of the superintendent.
“But when has such a thing happened? I have anything to do with
the police! And why just to-day?” he in bewilderment.
“Good God, only it over soon!”
He was himself on his to pray, but into
laughter--not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.
He began, dressing. “If I’m lost, I am lost, I don’t care!
Shall I put the sock on?” he wondered, “it will dustier
still and the will be gone.”
But no sooner had he put it on than he it off again in loathing
and horror. He it off, but that he had no other socks,
he it up and put it on again--and again he laughed.
“That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, a way of looking
at it,” he in a flash, but only on the top surface of his
mind, while he was all over, “there, I’ve got it on! I have
finished by it on!”
But his was by despair.
“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His shook. “From fear,”
he muttered. His and with fever. “It’s a trick! They
want to me there and me over everything,” he mused, as
he out on to the stairs--“the of it is I’m almost
light-headed... I may out something stupid...”
On the stairs he that he was all the just as
they were in the in the wall, “and very likely, it’s on purpose
to search when I’m out,” he thought, and stopped short. But he was
possessed by such despair, such of misery, if one may so call
it, that with a of his hand he on. “Only to it over!”
In the the was again; not a of rain had
fallen all those days. Again dust, and mortar, again the stench
from the shops and pot-houses, again the men, the Finnish
pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun in his eyes,
so that it him to look out of them, and he his going
round--as a man in a is to when he comes out into the
street on a sunny day.
When he the into _the_ street, in an of
trepidation he looked it... at _the_ house... and at once averted
his eyes.
“If they question me, I’ll tell,” he thought, as he drew
near the police-station.
The police-station was about a of a mile off. It had been
moved to new rooms on the fourth of a new house. He had been once
for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway,
he saw on the right a of stairs which a was with
a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is
here,” and he the stairs on the chance. He did not want
to ask questions of anyone.
“I’ll go in, on my knees, and everything...” he thought, as
he the fourth floor.
The was steep, narrow and all with dirty water. The
kitchens of the opened on to the stairs and open almost
the whole day. So there was a and heat. The staircase
was with going up and with their books under their
arms, policemen, and of all and sexes. The door of
the office, too, wide open. Peasants waiting within. There,
too, the was and there was a of fresh
paint and oil from the newly rooms.
After waiting a little, he to move into the next room.
All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A him
on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some
clerks sat writing, than he was, and a
queer-looking set. He up to one of them.
“What is it?”
He the notice he had received.
“You are a student?” the man asked, at the notice.
“Yes, a student.”
The looked at him, but without the interest. He was a
particularly person with the look of a idea in his eye.
“There would be no anything out of him, he has no
interest in anything,” Raskolnikov.
“Go in there to the clerk,” said the clerk, pointing the
furthest room.
He into that room--the fourth in order; it was a small room and
packed full of people, than in the rooms.
Among them were two ladies. One, in mourning, sat at the
table opposite the clerk, something at his dictation.
The other, a very stout, woman with a purplish-red, face,
excessively with a on her as big as a
saucer, was on one side, waiting for something.
Raskolnikov his notice upon the clerk. The glanced
at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and on to the lady in
mourning.
He more freely. “It can’t be that!”
By he to confidence, he himself to have
courage and be calm.
“Some foolishness, some carelessness, and I may myself!
Hm... it’s a there’s no air here,” he added, “it’s stifling.... It
makes one’s than ever... and one’s mind too...”
He was of a terrible turmoil. He was of losing
his self-control; he to catch at something and his mind on it,
something irrelevant, but he not succeed in this at all. Yet
the him, he to see through him
and something from his face.
He was a very man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile
face that looked older than his years. He was and
foppish, with his in the middle, well and pomaded,
and a number of on his well-scrubbed and a gold chain
on his waistcoat. He said a of in French to a who
was in the room, and said them correctly.
“Luise Ivanovna, you can down,” he said to the
gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still as though not
venturing to down, though there was a chair her.
“Ich danke,” said the latter, and softly, with a of she sank
into the chair. Her light dress with white floated
about the table like an air-balloon and almost the room. She
smelt of scent. But she was embarrassed at half
the room and so of scent; and though her was
impudent as well as cringing, it uneasiness.
The lady in had done at last, and got up. All at once, with
some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a of
his at each step. He his cap on the table and
sat in an easy-chair. The small lady positively from her
seat on him, and to in a of ecstasy; but the
officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not to
sit again in his presence. He was the superintendent. He
had a that out on each of his
face, and small features, of nothing much except
a insolence. He looked and at
Raskolnikov; he was so very dressed, and in of his
humiliating position, his was by no means in with his
clothes. Raskolnikov had a very long and direct look on
him, so that he positively affronted.
“What do you want?” he shouted, that such a ragged
fellow was not by the of his glance.
“I was summoned... by a notice...” Raskolnikov faltered.
“For the of money due, from _the student_,” the clerk
interfered hurriedly, himself from his papers. “Here!” and he
flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. “Read that!”
“Money? What money?” Raskolnikov, “but... then... it’s certainly
not _that_.”
And he with joy. He relief. A
load was from his back.
“And pray, what time were you to appear, sir?” the
assistant superintendent, for some unknown more and more
aggrieved. “You are told to come at nine, and now it’s twelve!”
“The notice was only me a of an hour ago,” Raskolnikov
answered over his shoulder. To his own he, too, grew
suddenly angry and a in it. “And it’s that
I have come here with fever.”
“Kindly from shouting!”
“I’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who are shouting
at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to at me.”
The was so that for the minute he
could only inarticulately. He up from his seat.
“Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be impudent, sir!”
“You’re in a government office, too,” Raskolnikov, “and you’re
smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are disrespect
to all of us.”
He an at having said this.
The looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant
superintendent was disconcerted.
“That’s not your business!” he at last with loudness.
“Kindly make the of you. Show him. Alexandr
Grigorievitch. There is a against you! You don’t pay your
debts! You’re a bird!”
But Raskolnikov was not now; he had at the
paper, in to an explanation. He read it once, and a second
time, and still did not understand.
“What is this?” he asked the clerk.
“It is for the of money on an I O U, a writ. You must
either pay it, with all expenses, and so on, or give a written
declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an not
to the without payment, and to sell or your
property. The is at to sell your property, and proceed
against you according to the law.”
“But I... am not in to anyone!”
“That’s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen
roubles, legally attested, and for payment, has been us
for recovery, by you to the of the Zarnitsyn, nine
months ago, and paid over by the Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov.
We therefore you, hereupon.”
“But she is my landlady!”
“And what if she is your landlady?”
The looked at him with a of compassion,
and at the same time with a triumph, as at a under fire
for the time--as though he would say: “Well, how do you now?”
But what did he now for an I O U, for a of recovery! Was that
worth about now, was it attention even! He stood, he
read, he listened, he answered, he asked questions himself, but
all mechanically. The of security, of from
overwhelming danger, that was what his whole that moment
without for the future, without analysis, without suppositions
or surmises, without and without questioning. It was an instant
of full, direct, purely joy. But at that very moment
something like a took place in the office. The assistant
superintendent, still by Raskolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming
and to keep up his dignity, on the
unfortunate lady, who had been at him since he came in
with an smile.
“You hussy!” he at the top of his voice. (The
lady in had left the office.) “What was going on at your house
last night? Eh! A again, you’re a to the whole street.
Fighting and again. Do you want the house of correction? Why,
I have you ten times over that I would not let you off the
eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... you...!”
The paper out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked at the
smart lady who was so treated. But he soon saw what it
meant, and at once to positive in the scandal. He
listened with pleasure, so that he to laugh and laugh... all his
nerves were on edge.
“Ilya Petrovitch!” the was anxiously, but stopped
short, for he from that the not
be stopped by force.
As for the lady, at she positively the
storm. But, to say, the more and the terms of
abuse became, the more she looked, and the more the
smiles she on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and
curtsied incessantly, waiting for a of in her
word: and at last she it.
“There was no of noise or in my house, Mr. Captain,” she
pattered all at once, like dropping, speaking Russian confidently,
though with a German accent, “and no of scandal, and his
honour came drunk, and it’s the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain,
and I am not to blame.... Mine is an house, Mr. Captain,
and behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always any
scandal myself. But he came tipsy, and asked for three bottles
again, and then he up one leg, and playing the pianoforte
with one foot, and that is not at all right in an house, and
he _ganz_ the piano, and it was very manners and I said
so. And he took up a bottle and with it. And then
I called the porter, and Karl came, and he took Karl and him in the
eye; and he Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five on the
cheek. And it was so in an house, Mr. Captain,
and I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and in
the window, like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of
squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon him!
And Karl him away from the window by his coat, and it is true,
Mr. Captain, he _sein rock_. And then he that _man muss_
pay him fifteen damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five
roubles for _sein rock_. And he is an visitor and caused
all the scandal. ‘I will you up,’ he said, ‘for I can to all
the papers about you.’”
“Then he was an author?”
“Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an visitor in an honourable
house....”
“Now then! Enough! I have told you already...”
“Ilya Petrovitch!” the significantly.
The at him; the his
head.
“... So I tell you this, most Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it
you for the last time,” the on. “If there is a scandal
in your house once again, I will put you in the
lock-up, as it is called in society. Do you hear? So a literary
man, an author took five for his coat-tail in an ‘honourable
house’? A set, these authors!”
And he a at Raskolnikov. “There was a scandal
the other day in a restaurant, too. An author had his dinner and
would not pay; ‘I’ll a on you,’ says he. And there was
another of them on a last week used the most disgraceful
language to the family of a councillor, his wife and
daughter. And there was one of them out of a confectioner’s shop
the other day. They are like that, authors, men, students,
town-criers.... Pfoo! You along! I shall look in upon you myself one
day. Then you had be careful! Do you hear?”
With deference, Luise Ivanovna to in all
directions, and so herself to the door. But at the door, she
stumbled against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open
face and thick whiskers. This was the of
the himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna haste
to almost to the ground, and with little steps, she
fluttered out of the office.
“Again and lightning--a hurricane!” said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya
Petrovitch in a and tone. “You are again, you are
fuming again! I it on the stairs!”
“Well, what then!” Ilya Petrovitch with nonchalance;
and he walked with some papers to another table, with a of
his at each step. “Here, if you will look: an author,
or a student, has been one at least, not pay his debts, has given
an I O U, won’t clear out of his room, and are constantly
being against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest
against my in his presence! He like a himself, and
just look at him, please. Here’s the gentleman, and very he
is!”
“Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder,
you can’t a slight, I you took at something and
went too yourself,” Nikodim Fomitch, to
Raskolnikov. “But you were there; he is a fellow, I assure
you, but explosive, explosive! He hot, up, over, and no
stopping him! And then it’s all over! And at the he’s a of
gold! His in the was the Explosive Lieutenant....”
“And what a it was, too,” Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified
at this banter, though still sulky.
Raskolnikov had a to say something pleasant
to them all. “Excuse me, Captain,” he easily, addressing
Nikodim Fomitch, “will you enter into my position?... I am to
ask pardon, if I have been ill-mannered. I am a student, sick
and (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. I am not
studying, I cannot keep myself now, but I shall money.... I
have a mother and sister in the of X. They will send it to
me, and I will pay. My is a good-hearted woman, but she is so
exasperated at my having my lessons, and not paying her for the
last four months, that she not send up my dinner... and I
don’t this I O U at all. She is me to pay her on this
I O U. How am I to pay her? Judge for yourselves!...”
“But that is not our business, you know,” the was observing.
“Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain...”
Raskolnikov put in again, still Nikodim Fomitch, but trying
his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the persistently
appeared to be among his papers and to be contemptuously
oblivious of him. “Allow me to that I have been with her
for nearly three years and at first... at first... for why should I not
confess it, at the very I promised to her daughter, it
was a promise, given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked
her, though I was not in love with her... a in fact...
that is, I to say, that my gave me in those
days, and I a life of... I was very heedless...”
“Nobody you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no time to
waste,” Ilya Petrovitch and with a note of triumph;
but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he it
exceedingly difficult to speak.
“But me, me. It is for me to explain... how it all
happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary.
But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I there as
before, and when my moved into her present quarters, she said
to me... and in a way... that she had complete trust in me,
but still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen
roubles, all the I her. She said if only I gave her that,
she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never,
never--those were her own words--make use of that I O U till I pay
of myself... and now, when I have my lessons and have nothing to
eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?”
“All these are no of ours.” Ilya Petrovitch
interrupted rudely. “You must give a but as for your
love and all these events, we have nothing to do with
that.”
“Come now... you are harsh,” Nikodim Fomitch, at
the table and also to write. He looked a little ashamed.
“Write!” said the to Raskolnikov.
“Write what?” the asked, gruffly.
“I will to you.”
Raskolnikov that the him more and
contemptuously after his speech, but to say he felt
completely to anyone’s opinion, and this took
place in a flash, in one instant. If he had to think a little,
he would have been that he have talked to them like
that a minute before, his upon them. And where had
those come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not
with police officers, but with those nearest and to him, he
would not have one word for them, so empty was his heart. A
gloomy of agonising, and remoteness, took
conscious in his soul. It was not the of his sentimental
effusions Ilya Petrovitch, the of the latter’s
triumph over him that had this in his heart.
Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty
vanities, officers, German women, debts, police-offices? If he had been
sentenced to be at that moment, he would not have stirred, would
hardly have the to the end. Something was to
him new, and unknown. It was not that he understood, but
he with all the of that he could
never more to these people in the police-office with sentimental
effusions like his outburst, or with anything whatever; and that
if they had been his own and sisters and not police-officers,
it would have been out of the question to to them in any
circumstance of life. He had such a and awful
sensation. And what was most agonising--it was more a than a
conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most of all the
sensations he had in his life.
The to him the of declaration,
that he not pay, that he to do so at a date, that
he would not the town, sell his property, and so on.
“But you can’t write, you can the pen,” the head
clerk, looking with at Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?”
“Yes, I am giddy. Go on!”
“That’s all. Sign it.”
The took the paper, and to to others.
Raskolnikov gave the pen; but of up and going away,
he put his on the table and pressed his in his hands. He
felt as if a were being into his skull. A idea
suddenly to him, to up at once, to go up to Nikodim
Fomitch, and tell him that had yesterday, and then
to go with him to his and to him the in the hole
in the corner. The was so that he got up from his seat
to it out. “Hadn’t I think a minute?” through his
mind. “No, off the without thinking.” But all at once
he still, to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly
with Ilya Petrovitch, and the him:
“It’s impossible, they’ll be released. To with, the whole
story itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it
had been their doing? To against themselves? Or as a blind? No,
that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was at
the gate by the and a woman as he in. He was walking
with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the
porters to direct him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he
have asked his way if he had been going with such an object? As for
Koch, he an hour at the silversmith’s below, he went
up to the old woman and he left him at a to eight. Now
just consider...”
“But me, how do you this contradiction? They state
themselves that they and the door was locked; yet three minutes
later when they up with the porter, it out the door was
unfastened.”
“That’s just it; the must have been there and himself
in; and they’d have him for a if Koch had not been
an and gone to look for the too. _He_ must have the
interval to and by them somehow. Koch crossing
himself and saying: ‘If I had been there, he would have jumped out and
killed me with his axe.’ He is going to have a thanksgiving service--ha,
ha!”
“And no one saw the murderer?”
“They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah’s Ark,” said
the clerk, who was listening.
“It’s clear, clear,” Nikodim Fomitch warmly.
“No, it is anything but clear,” Ilya Petrovitch maintained.
Raskolnikov up his and walked the door, but he did
not it....
When he consciousness, he himself in a chair,
supported by someone on the right side, while someone else was standing
on the left, a with yellow water, and
Nikodim Fomitch him, looking at him. He got up
from the chair.
“What’s this? Are you ill?” Nikodim Fomitch asked, sharply.
“He his pen when he was signing,” said the clerk,
settling in his place, and taking up his work again.
“Have you been long?” Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where
he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at
the man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered.
“Since yesterday,” Raskolnikov in reply.
“Did you go out yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Though you were ill?”
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“About seven.”
“And where did you go, may I ask?”
“Along the street.”
“Short and clear.”
Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily,
without his black Ilya Petrovitch’s stare.
“He can upright. And you...” Nikodim Fomitch was
beginning.
“No matter,” Ilya Petrovitch peculiarly.
Nikodim Fomitch would have some protest, but at
the who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There
was a silence. It was strange.
“Very well, then,” Ilya Petrovitch, “we will not you.”
Raskolnikov out. He the of on his
departure, and above the rose the voice of Nikodim
Fomitch. In the street, his passed off completely.
“A search--there will be a search at once,” he to himself,
hurrying home. “The brutes! they suspect.”
His terror him again.
