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Updated: May 22, 2025
A woman drowning!" shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him. "Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!" "A boat, a boat" was shouted in the crowd.
"You must give a written undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that." "Come now... you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed. "Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov. "Write what?" the latter asked, gruffly. "I will dictate to you."
"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little." He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust. "Yes, you've had a little attack!
Suddenly Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry. "You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method again. I wonder you don't get sick of it!" "Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare.
And besides, there's a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that I... will keep quiet. Where are you off to?" he asked in alarm. Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Svidrigailov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth. "A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!"
"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.
"What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said with a constrained smile. "But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however. "I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One's ashamed to speak of it." "If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it." Both were silent.
I believe I should drop with shame...." Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. "Where is it," thought Raskolnikov.
Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia.
Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about women?" "Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch inquired. "Yes." "When did she come?" "Last night." Porfiry paused as though reflecting. "Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time."
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