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Updated: June 1, 2025
Three minutes later Yegorushka was sitting beside her, answering her endless questions and eating hot savoury cabbage soup. In the evening he sat again at the same table and, resting his head on his hand, listened to Nastasya Petrovna.
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?
And it seemed strange to Vanda that, now that she was humbly dressed and looked like a laundress or sewing girl, she felt ashamed, and no trace of her usual boldness and sauciness remained, and in her own mind she no longer thought of herself as Vanda, but as the Nastasya Kanavkin she used to be in the old days. . . . "Walk in, please," said a maidservant, showing her into the consulting-room.
Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion.
Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya. "From the landlady, eh?" he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa. "From the landlady, indeed!" She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher's."
"It's the blood," she answered at last softly, as though speaking to herself. "Blood? What blood?" he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall. Nastasya still looked at him without speaking. "Nobody has been beating the landlady," she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice. He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.
"No, he can't fascinate every one. He must be satisfied with Nastasya Karpovna's being in love with him." The poor widow was utterly dismayed. "How can you, Marfa Timofyevna? you've no conscience!" she cried, and a crimson flush instantly overspread her face and neck.
"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.
"If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do: Nastasya will stay with him now, and I'll conduct you both home, you can't be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way.... But no matter!
And you sweep up, my good woman, for once in your life." "They make such a muck!" Nastasya whined in a voice of plaintive exasperation. "Well, you must sweep, sweep it up fifteen times a day! "Shut the door properly. She'll be listening. You must have it repapered. Didn't I send a paperhanger to you with patterns? Why didn't you choose one? Sit down, and listen. Do sit down, I beg you.
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