-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Федор Достоевский
-
- Преступление и наказание
-
- Стр. 13/453
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
And
so
on
,
and
so
on
.
“
Let
us
go
,
sir
,
”
said
Marmeladov
all
at
once
,
raising
his
head
and
addressing
Raskolnikov
—
“
come
along
with
me
.
.
.
Kozel
’
s
house
,
looking
into
the
yard
.
I
’
m
going
to
Katerina
Ivanovna
—
time
I
did
.
”
Raskolnikov
had
for
some
time
been
wanting
to
go
and
he
had
meant
to
help
him
.
Marmeladov
was
much
unsteadier
on
his
legs
than
in
his
speech
and
leaned
heavily
on
the
young
man
.
They
had
two
or
three
hundred
paces
to
go
.
The
drunken
man
was
more
and
more
overcome
by
dismay
and
confusion
as
they
drew
nearer
the
house
.
“
It
’
s
not
Katerina
Ivanovna
I
am
afraid
of
now
,
”
he
muttered
in
agitation
—
“
and
that
she
will
begin
pulling
my
hair
.
What
does
my
hair
matter
!
Bother
my
hair
!
That
’
s
what
I
say
!
Indeed
it
will
be
better
if
she
does
begin
pulling
it
,
that
’
s
not
what
I
am
afraid
of
.
.
.
it
’
s
her
eyes
I
am
afraid
of
.
.
.
yes
,
her
eyes
.
.
.
the
red
on
her
cheeks
,
too
,
frightens
me
.
.
.
and
her
breathing
too
.
.
.
.
Have
you
noticed
how
people
in
that
disease
breathe
.
.
.
when
they
are
excited
?
I
am
frightened
of
the
children
’
s
crying
,
too
.
.
.
.
For
if
Sonia
has
not
taken
them
food
.
.
.
I
don
’
t
know
what
’
s
happened
!
I
don
’
t
know
!
But
blows
I
am
not
afraid
of
.
.
.
.
Know
,
sir
,
that
such
blows
are
not
a
pain
to
me
,
but
even
an
enjoyment
.
In
fact
I
can
’
t
get
on
without
it
.
.
.
.
It
’
s
better
so
.
Let
her
strike
me
,
it
relieves
her
heart
.
.
.
it
’
s
better
so
.
.
.
There
is
the
house
.
The
house
of
Kozel
,
the
cabinet
-
maker
.
.
.
a
German
,
well
-
to
-
do
.
Lead
the
way
!
”
They
went
in
from
the
yard
and
up
to
the
fourth
storey
.
The
staircase
got
darker
and
darker
as
they
went
up
.
It
was
nearly
eleven
o
’
clock
and
although
in
summer
in
Petersburg
there
is
no
real
night
,
yet
it
was
quite
dark
at
the
top
of
the
stairs
.
A
grimy
little
door
at
the
very
top
of
the
stairs
stood
ajar
.
A
very
poor
-
looking
room
about
ten
paces
long
was
lighted
up
by
a
candle
-
end
;
the
whole
of
it
was
visible
from
the
entrance
.
It
was
all
in
disorder
,
littered
up
with
rags
of
all
sorts
,
especially
children
’
s
garments
.
Across
the
furthest
corner
was
stretched
a
ragged
sheet
.
Behind
it
probably
was
the
bed
.
There
was
nothing
in
the
room
except
two
chairs
and
a
sofa
covered
with
American
leather
,
full
of
holes
,
before
which
stood
an
old
deal
kitchen
-
table
,
unpainted
and
uncovered
.
At
the
edge
of
the
table
stood
a
smoldering
tallow
-
candle
in
an
iron
candlestick
.
It
appeared
that
the
family
had
a
room
to
themselves
,
not
part
of
a
room
,
but
their
room
was
practically
a
passage
.
The
door
leading
to
the
other
rooms
,
or
rather
cupboards
,
into
which
Amalia
Lippevechsel
’
s
flat
was
divided
stood
half
open
,
and
there
was
shouting
,
uproar
and
laughter
within
.
People
seemed
to
be
playing
cards
and
drinking
tea
there
.
Words
of
the
most
unceremonious
kind
flew
out
from
time
to
time
.
Raskolnikov
recognised
Katerina
Ivanovna
at
once
.
She
was
a
rather
tall
,
slim
and
graceful
woman
,
terribly
emaciated
,
with
magnificent
dark
brown
hair
and
with
a
hectic
flush
in
her
cheeks
.
She
was
pacing
up
and
down
in
her
little
room
,
pressing
her
hands
against
her
chest
;
her
lips
were
parched
and
her
breathing
came
in
nervous
broken
gasps
.
Her
eyes
glittered
as
in
fever
and
looked
about
with
a
harsh
immovable
stare
.
And
that
consumptive
and
excited
face
with
the
last
flickering
light
of
the
candle
-
end
playing
upon
it
made
a
sickening
impression
.
She
seemed
to
Raskolnikov
about
thirty
years
old
and
was
certainly
a
strange
wife
for
Marmeladov
.
.
.
.
She
had
not
heard
them
and
did
not
notice
them
coming
in
.
She
seemed
to
be
lost
in
thought
,
hearing
and
seeing
nothing
.
The
room
was
close
,
but
she
had
not
opened
the
window
;
a
stench
rose
from
the
staircase
,
but
the
door
on
to
the
stairs
was
not
closed
.
From
the
inner
rooms
clouds
of
tobacco
smoke
floated
in
,
she
kept
coughing
,
but
did
not
close
the
door
.
The
youngest
child
,
a
girl
of
six
,
was
asleep
,
sitting
curled
up
on
the
floor
with
her
head
on
the
sofa
.
A
boy
a
year
older
stood
crying
and
shaking
in
the
corner
,
probably
he
had
just
had
a
beating
.
Beside
him
stood
a
girl
of
nine
years
old
,
tall
and
thin
,
wearing
a
thin
and
ragged
chemise
with
an
ancient
cashmere
pelisse
flung
over
her
bare
shoulders
,
long
outgrown
and
barely
reaching
her
knees
.
Her
arm
,
as
thin
as
a
stick
,
was
round
her
brother
’
s
neck
.
She
was
trying
to
comfort
him
,
whispering
something
to
him
,
and
doing
all
she
could
to
keep
him
from
whimpering
again
.
At
the
same
time
her
large
dark
eyes
,
which
looked
larger
still
from
the
thinness
of
her
frightened
face
,
were
watching
her
mother
with
alarm
.
Marmeladov
did
not
enter
the
door
,
but
dropped
on
his
knees
in
the
very
doorway
,
pushing
Raskolnikov
in
front
of
him
.
The
woman
seeing
a
stranger
stopped
indifferently
facing
him
,
coming
to
herself
for
a
moment
and
apparently
wondering
what
he
had
come
for
.
But
evidently
she
decided
that
he
was
going
into
the
next
room
,
as
he
had
to
pass
through
hers
to
get
there
.
Taking
no
further
notice
of
him
,
she
walked
towards
the
outer
door
to
close
it
and
uttered
a
sudden
scream
on
seeing
her
husband
on
his
knees
in
the
doorway
.
“
Ah
!
”
she
cried
out
in
a
frenzy
,
“
he
has
come
back
!
The
criminal
!
the
monster
!
.
.
.
