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“
My
God
!
”
exclaimed
Pulcheria
Alexandrovna
,
“
little
did
I
think
that
I
should
ever
fear
seeing
my
son
,
my
darling
,
darling
Rodya
!
I
am
afraid
,
Dmitri
Prokofitch
,
”
she
added
,
glancing
at
him
timidly
.
“
Don
’
t
be
afraid
,
mother
,
”
said
Dounia
,
kissing
her
,
“
better
have
faith
in
him
.
”
“
Oh
,
dear
,
I
have
faith
in
him
,
but
I
haven
’
t
slept
all
night
,
”
exclaimed
the
poor
woman
.
They
came
out
into
the
street
.
“
Do
you
know
,
Dounia
,
when
I
dozed
a
little
this
morning
I
dreamed
of
Marfa
Petrovna
.
.
.
she
was
all
in
white
.
.
.
she
came
up
to
me
,
took
my
hand
,
and
shook
her
head
at
me
,
but
so
sternly
as
though
she
were
blaming
me
.
.
.
.
Is
that
a
good
omen
?
Oh
,
dear
me
!
You
don
’
t
know
,
Dmitri
Prokofitch
,
that
Marfa
Petrovna
’
s
dead
!
”
“
No
,
I
didn
’
t
know
;
who
is
Marfa
Petrovna
?
”
“
She
died
suddenly
;
and
only
fancy
.
.
.
”
“
Afterwards
,
mamma
,
”
put
in
Dounia
.
“
He
doesn
’
t
know
who
Marfa
Petrovna
is
.
”
“
Ah
,
you
don
’
t
know
?
And
I
was
thinking
that
you
knew
all
about
us
.
Forgive
me
,
Dmitri
Prokofitch
,
I
don
’
t
know
what
I
am
thinking
about
these
last
few
days
.
I
look
upon
you
really
as
a
providence
for
us
,
and
so
I
took
it
for
granted
that
you
knew
all
about
us
.
I
look
on
you
as
a
relation
.
.
.
.
Don
’
t
be
angry
with
me
for
saying
so
.
Dear
me
,
what
’
s
the
matter
with
your
right
hand
?
Have
you
knocked
it
?
”
“
Yes
,
I
bruised
it
,
”
muttered
Razumihin
overjoyed
