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I am in complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, and think there is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch's evasiveness, very natural at present, (since he does not know you) Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner.

He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us to pay for your university studies; we have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work.

Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him close, for oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my precious Rodya, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for my own personal, perhaps old-womanish, fancies) I should do better to go on living by myself, apart, than with them, after the wedding.
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"The floors have been washed, will they be painted?" Raskolnikov went on. "Is there no blood?" "What blood?" "Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there." "But who are you?" the workman cried, uneasy. "Who am I?" "Yes." "You want to know? Come to the police station, I'll tell you." The workmen looked at him in amazement. "It's time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up," said the elder workman. "Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs.

"Very well, come along," said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. "Hey, porter," he cried in the gateway. At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers-by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them. "What do you want?" asked one of the porters. "Have you been to the police office?" "I've just been there. What do you want?" "Is it open?" "Of course." "Is the assistant there?" "He was there for a time.

"Is the assistant there?" "He was there for a time. What do you want?" Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought. "He's been to look at the flat," said the elder workman, coming forward. "Which flat?" "Where we are at work. 'Why have you washed away the blood?' says he. 'There has been a murder here,' says he, 'and I've come to take it.' And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. 'Come to the police station,' says he. 'I'll tell you everything there.' He wouldn't leave us."
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Near the entrance of the tavern stood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants' nags which he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut.

And the peasants would be at them so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the balalaika, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunken peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders. "Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot.

"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!" But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd. "Take us all with a beast like that!" "Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?" "And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!" "Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front.
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These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria Alexandrovna's disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of some one's recalling Raskolnikov's name and speaking of the recent trial.

Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of some one's recalling Raskolnikov's name and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her. At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home, that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months.

She would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home, that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in joyful day dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious.
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. partly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too...." "Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening. "Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly. "Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too." Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them.

He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower. "But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent. "Why, he was accused of the murder," Razumihin went on hotly. "Was there evidence against him then?" "Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that's what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first.

It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it's all done, it makes one sick, though it's not one's business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night.... By the way, Rodya, you've heard about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it." Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir. "But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!" Zossimov observed.
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.. Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe.... There are many like that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady," and he bent over her once more. Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, "looking like ladies and refined" with pretensions to gentility and smartness.... "The chief thing is," Raskolnikov persisted, "to keep her out of this scoundrel's hands! Why should he outrage her! It's as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!" Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him.

The gentleman heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten paces away and again halted. "Keep her out of his hands we can," said the constable thoughtfully, "if only she'd tell us where to take her, but as it is.... Missy, hey, missy!" he bent over her once more. She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as though realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in the direction from which she had come.

"Oh shameful wretches, they won't let me alone!" she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along another avenue, keeping his eye on her. "Don't be anxious, I won't let him have her," the policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them. "Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!" he repeated aloud, sighing. At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling came over him. "Hey, here!" he shouted after the policeman.
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