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> CHAPTER III

He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill;
he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half
conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed
as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take
him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and
discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all
gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack
to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together,
laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his
bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know
very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted
him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a
month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of
/that/--of /that/ he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt
that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and
tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or
sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up,
would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and
he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to
complete consciousness.

It happened at ten o'clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone
into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right
wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him
with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very
inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-
waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in
at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.

"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to the young man.

"I say, he's himself again!" she said.

"He is himself," echoed the man.

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the
door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or
discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and
buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and
laziness, and absurdly bashful.

"Who . . . are you?" he went on, addressing the man. But at that
moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so
tall, Razumihin came in.

"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head. You
call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I've just heard
the news from Pashenka."

"He has just come to," said Nastasya.

"Just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile.

"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. "My name
is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called,
but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who
are you?"

"I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and
I've come on business."

"Please sit down." Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the
table. "It's a good thing you've come to, brother," he went on to
Raskolnikov. "For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk
anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to
see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and
said at once it was nothing serious--something seemed to have gone to
your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says
you have not had enough beer and radish, but it's nothing much, it
will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow!
He is making quite a name. Come, I won't keep you," he said,
addressing the man again. "Will you explain what you want? You must
know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office;
but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came
before?"

"That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please,
sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too."

"He was more intelligent than you, don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am."

"Quite so; go on."

"At your mamma's request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of
whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to
you from our office," the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. "If you
are in an intelligible condition, I've thirty-five roubles to remit to
you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at
your mamma's request instructions to that effect, as on previous
occasions. Do you know him, sir?"

"Yes, I remember . . . Vahrushin," Raskolnikov said dreamily.

"You hear, he knows Vahrushin," cried Razumihin. "He is in 'an
intelligible condition'! And I see you are an intelligent man too.
Well, it's always pleasant to hear words of wisdom."

"That's the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the
request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in
the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and
sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you
thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come."

"That 'hoping for better to come' is the best thing you've said,
though 'your mamma' is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is
he fully conscious, eh?"

"That's all right. If only he can sign this little paper."

"He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?"

"Yes, here's the book."

"Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I'll hold you. Take the pen and
scribble 'Raskolnikov' for him. For just now, brother, money is
sweeter to us than treacle."

"I don't want it," said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.

"Not want it?"

"I won't sign it."

"How the devil can you do without signing it?"

"I don't want . . . the money."

"Don't want the money! Come, brother, that's nonsense, I bear witness.
Don't trouble, please, it's only that he is on his travels again. But
that's pretty common with him at all times though. . . . You are a man
of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take
his hand and he will sign it. Here."

"But I can come another time."

"No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment. . . .
Now, Rodya, don't keep your visitor, you see he is waiting," and he
made ready to hold Raskolnikov's hand in earnest.

"Stop, I'll do it alone," said the latter, taking the pen and signing
his name.

The messenger took out the money and went away.

"Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?"

"Yes," answered Raskolnikov.

"Is there any soup?"

"Some of yesterday's," answered Nastasya, who was still standing
there.

"With potatoes and rice in it?"

"Yes."

"I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea."

"Very well."

Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull,
unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what
would happen. "I believe I am not wandering. I believe it's reality,"
he thought.

In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced
that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two
spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The
table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.

"It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send
us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them."

"Well, you are a cool hand," muttered Nastasya, and she departed to
carry out his orders.

Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile
Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put
his left arm round Raskolnikov's head, although he was able to sit up,
and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it
that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm.
Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a
third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin
suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought
to have more.

Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.

"And will you have tea?"

"Yes."

"Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on
without the faculty. But here is the beer!" He moved back to his
chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as
though he had not touched food for three days.

"I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now," he
mumbled with his mouth full of beef, "and it's all Pashenka, your dear
little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I
don't ask for it, but, of course, I don't object. And here's Nastasya
with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won't you have
some beer?"

"Get along with your nonsense!"

"A cup of tea, then?"

"A cup of tea, maybe."

"Pour it out. Stay, I'll pour it out myself. Sit down."

He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As
before, he put his left arm round the sick man's head, raised him up
and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily
and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most
effective means towards his friend's recovery. Raskolnikov said
nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to
sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a
cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from
some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his
strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be
yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to
find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of
repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly
released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back
on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now,
down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of
it.

"Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some
raspberry tea," said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking
his soup and beer again.

"And where is she to get raspberries for you?" asked Nastasya,
balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea
through a lump of sugar.

"She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of
things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you
decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so
angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work
that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging
of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed,
because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only
remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov's house. I kept trying
to find that Harlamov's house, and afterwards it turned out that it
was not Harlamov's, but Buch's. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So
I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next
day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is
down there."

"My name!"

"I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find
while I was there. Well, it's a long story. But as soon as I did land
on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs--all, all, brother,
I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the
acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-
porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the
police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here
knows. . . ."

"He's got round her," Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.

"Why don't you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?"

"You are a one!" Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. "I
am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna," she added suddenly, recovering from
her mirth.

"I'll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I
was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant
influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not
expected, brother, to find her so . . . prepossessing. Eh, what do you
think?"

Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him,
full of alarm.

"And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect," Razumihin
went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.

"Ah, the sly dog!" Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded
her unspeakable delight.

"It's a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way
at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to
speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her
character later. . . . How could you let things come to such a pass
that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must
have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her
daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive? . . . I know all about it! But
I see that's a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But,
talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly
so foolish as you would think at first sight?"

"No," mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was
better to keep up the conversation.

"She isn't, is she?" cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out
of him. "But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially,
essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a
loss, I assure you. . . . She must be forty; she says she is thirty-
six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge
her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there
is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what
not! I don't understand it! Well, that's all nonsense. Only, seeing
that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your
clothes, and that through the young lady's death she has no need to
treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in
your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to
get rid of you. And she's been cherishing that design a long time, but
was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your
mother would pay."

"It was base of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is almost a
beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my lodging . . . and be fed,"
Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.

"Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point
Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have
thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but
the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the
question, 'Is there any hope of realising the I O U?' Answer: there
is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred
and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a
sister, too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That's what he
was building upon. . . . Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs
of your affairs now, my dear boy--it's not for nothing that you were
so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I
say all this as a friend. . . . But I tell you what it is; an honest
and sensitive man is open; and a business man 'listens and goes on
eating' you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to
this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for
payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to
clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and
Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that
you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We
called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from
him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts
your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it."

Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and
turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a
twinge.

"I see, brother," he said a moment later, "that I have been playing
the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I
believe I have only made you cross."

"Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?" Raskolnikov
asked, after a moment's pause without turning his head.

"Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought
Zametov one day."

"Zametov? The head clerk? What for?" Raskolnikov turned round quickly
and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.

"What's the matter with you? . . . What are you upset about? He wanted
to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you.
. . . How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a
capital fellow, brother, first-rate . . . in his own way, of course.
Now we are friends--see each other almost every day. I have moved into
this part, you know. I have only just moved. I've been with him to
Luise Ivanovna once or twice. . . . Do you remember Luise, Luise
Ivanovna?

"Did I say anything in delirium?"

"I should think so! You were beside yourself."

"What did I rave about?"

"What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about. . . .
Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work." He got up from the
table and took up his cap.

"What did I rave about?"

"How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don't
worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot
about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky
Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the
assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special
interest to you was your own sock. You whined, 'Give me my sock.'
Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own
scented, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were
you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the
wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most
likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked
so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what
sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here
are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an
account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the
same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is
nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am
away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will
tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!"

"He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he's a deep one!" said Nastasya as he went
out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not
resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what
he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by
Razumihin.

No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the
bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching
impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to
work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.

"Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What
if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid
up, and then they will come in and tell me that it's been discovered
long ago and that they have only . . . What am I to do now? That's
what I've forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I
remembered a minute ago."

He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment
about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was
not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed
to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining
it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled--but that was not it. He went
to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed
edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there
just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he
remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him.
Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered
with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.

"Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police
office? Where's the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I
looked at my sock then, too, but now . . . now I have been ill. But
what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?" he muttered,
helplessly sitting on the sofa again. "What does it mean? Am I still
in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real. . . . Ah, I
remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must
escape! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? I've no boots.
They've taken them away! They've hidden them! I understand! Ah, here
is my coat--they passed that over! And here is money on the table,
thank God! And here's the I O U . . . I'll take the money and go and
take another lodging. They won't find me! . . . Yes, but the address
bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape
altogether . . . far away . . . to America, and let them do their
worst! And take the I O U . . . it would be of use there. . . . What
else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don't know that I can
walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it!
If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch
there--policemen! What's this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a
bottle, cold!"

He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer,
and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his
breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a
faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and
pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more
and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon
him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow,
wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had
replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a
deep, sound, refreshing sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw
Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or
not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as
though trying to recall something.

"Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!"
Razumihin shouted down the stairs. "You shall have the account
directly."

"What time is it?" asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.

"Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it's almost evening, it will be
six o'clock directly. You have slept more than six hours."

"Good heavens! Have I?"

"And why not? It will do you good. What's the hurry? A tryst, is it?
We've all time before us. I've been waiting for the last three hours
for you; I've been up twice and found you asleep. I've called on
Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn
up. And I've been out on my own business, too. You know I've been
moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me
now. But that's no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya.
We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?"

"I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?"

"I tell you I've been waiting for the last three hours."

"No, before."

"How do you mean?"

"How long have you been coming here?"

"Why I told you all about it this morning. Don't you remember?"

Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could
not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.

"Hm!" said the latter, "he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were
not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep. . . . You
really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my
dear boy."

He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him.

"Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For
we must make a man of you. Let's begin from the top. Do you see this
cap?" he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and
ordinary cap. "Let me try it on."

"Presently, afterwards," said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly.

"Come, Rodya, my boy, don't oppose it, afterwards will be too late;
and I shan't sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without
measure. Just right!" he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, "just your
size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a
recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always
obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public
place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does
it from slavish politeness, but it's simply because he is ashamed of
his bird's nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here
are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston"--he took from the
corner Raskolnikov's old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason,
he called a Palmerston--"or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what
do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!" he said, turning to her,
seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.

"Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say," answered Nastasya.

"Twenty copecks, silly!" he cried, offended. "Why, nowadays you would
cost more than that--eighty copecks! And that only because it has been
worn. And it's bought on condition that when's it's worn out, they
will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us
pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I
assure you I am proud of these breeches," and he exhibited to
Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material.
"No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn;
and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn
really is an improvement, it's softer, smoother. . . . You see, Rodya,
to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always
to keep to the seasons; if you don't insist on having asparagus in
January, you keep your money in your purse; and it's the same with
this purchase. It's summer now, so I've been buying summer things--
warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw
these away in any case . . . especially as they will be done for by
then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of
luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five
copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will
have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at
Fedyaev's; if you've bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life,
for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the
boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they'll
last a couple of months, for it's foreign work and foreign leather;
the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week--he had only
worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price--a rouble and
a half. A bargain?"

"But perhaps they won't fit," observed Nastasya.

"Not fit? Just look!" and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov's
old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. "I did not go empty-
handed--they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And
as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with
are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front. . . . Well now
then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the
suit--together three roubles five copecks--a rouble and a half for the
boots--for, you see, they are very good--and that makes four roubles
fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes--they were
bought in the lo-- which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five
copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And
so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your
overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from
getting one's clothes from Sharmer's! As for your socks and other
things, I leave them to you; we've twenty-five roubles left. And as
for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don't you worry. I tell you
she'll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your
linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt."

"Let me be! I don't want to!" Raskolnikov waved him off. He had
listened with disgust to Razumihin's efforts to be playful about his
purchases.

"Come, brother, don't tell me I've been trudging around for nothing,"
Razumihin insisted. "Nastasya, don't be bashful, but help me--that's
it," and in spite of Raskolnikov's resistance he changed his linen.
The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said
nothing.

"It will be long before I get rid of them," he thought. "What money
was all that bought with?" he asked at last, gazing at the wall.

"Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your
mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?"

"I remember now," said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence.
Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy.

The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar
to Raskolnikov came in.



Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Category:
General Fiction
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