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Updated: May 15, 2025
The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev's, to arrive before Luzhin. "Why, who was that?" asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the street. "It was Svidrigailov, that landowner in whose house my sister was insulted when she was their governess. Through his persecuting her with his attentions, she was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna.
But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev's. "Go in alone!" said Raskolnikov suddenly. "I will be back directly." "Where are you going? Why, we are just here." "I can't help it.... I will come in half an hour. Tell them."
"I don't believe it, I can't believe it!" repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov's arguments. They were by now approaching Bakaleyev's lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while.
At nine o'clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev's house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it.
Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on: "... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival." "Where?" asked Raskolnikov weakly. "Very near here, in Bakaleyev's house." "That's in Voskresensky," put in Razumihin.
And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev's house, too..." "Lebeziatnikov?" said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something. "Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?" "Yes... no," Raskolnikov answered.
He put the revolver to his right temple. "You can't do it here, it's not the place," cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger. Svidrigailov pulled the trigger. The same day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's lodging the lodging in Bakaleyev's house which Razumihin had found for them.
As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev's, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman's handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him.
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