Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
And Raskolnikoff felt suddenly seized as with a general paralysis, the same as happens when a person has the nightmare and fancies himself pursued by enemies; they are on the point of catching him, they will kill him, and yet he remains spellbound, unable to move a limb. The stranger was now ascending the fourth flight.
"Where did you go, allow me to ask?" "In the streets." "Concise and clear." Raskolnikoff had replied sharply, in a broken voice, his face as pale as a handkerchief, and with his black swollen eyes averted from Elia Petrovitch's scrutinizing glance. "He can hardly stand on his legs. Do you want to ask anything more?" said Nicodemus Thomich. "Nothing," replied Elia Petrovitch.
In the mouth of a coarse man, who deprives himself of nothing, such a statement might afford food for laughter. Never mind, however, but there lies a theory in suffering. Mikolka is right. You won't escape, Rodion Romanovitch." Raskolnikoff rose and took his cap. Porphyrius Petrovitch did the same. "Are you going for a walk? The night will be a fine one, as long as we get no storm.
When he came to himself he found he was sitting on a chair, supported on the right by some unknown man, while to his left stood another, holding some yellow water in a yellow glass. Nicodemus Thomich, standing before him, was looking at him fixedly. Raskolnikoff rose. "What is it? Are you ill?" asked the officer sharply.
This explanation, which had offered itself the day before to his mind, at the time he felt most fearful, he considered a more likely one. Whilst thinking about all this and getting ready for a new struggle, Raskolnikoff suddenly perceived that he was trembling; he became indignant at the very thought that it was fear of an interview with the hateful Porphyrius Petrovitch which led him to do so.
I am fond of laughter. My temperament leads me to dread apoplexy. But, pray, do sit down why remain standing? Do, I must request you, batuchka; otherwise I shall fancy that you are cross." His brows still knit, Raskolnikoff held his tongue, listened, and watched. In the meanwhile he sat down.
The card that used to be on the door had gone; the lodgers had, no doubt, moved. Raskolnikoff was stifling. He stood hesitating a moment: "Had I not better go away?" But without answering the question, he waited and listened. Not a sound issued from the old woman's apartments. The staircase was filled with the same silence.
The latter looked at him in surprise, but smiled. "I love it," continued Raskolnikoff, "especially when they sing to the organ on a cold, dark, gray winter's evening, when all the passers-by seem to have pale, green, sickly-looking faces when the snow is falling like a sleet, straight down and with no wind, you know, and while the lamps shine on it all." "I don't know.
Now sign it." Raskolnikoff let fall the pen, and seemed as if about to rise and go; but, instead of doing so, he laid both elbows on the table and supported his head with his hands.
Yes, he will keep hovering about me, describing circles, smaller and smaller, till at last bang! He has flown into my clutches, and I have got him. That is very nice. You don't think so, perhaps?" Raskolnikoff kept silent. Pale and immovable, he continued to watch Porphyrius's face with a labored effort of attention. "The lesson is a good one!" he reflected.
Word Of The Day