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- Федор Достоевский
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- Преступление и наказание
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- Стр. 232/453
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Raskolnikov
went
on
walking
beside
him
.
His
legs
felt
suddenly
weak
,
a
cold
shiver
ran
down
his
spine
,
and
his
heart
seemed
to
stand
still
for
a
moment
,
then
suddenly
began
throbbing
as
though
it
were
set
free
.
So
they
walked
for
about
a
hundred
paces
,
side
by
side
in
silence
.
The
man
did
not
look
at
him
.
“
What
do
you
mean
.
.
.
what
is
.
.
.
.
Who
is
a
murderer
?
”
muttered
Raskolnikov
hardly
audibly
.
“
You
are
a
murderer
,
”
the
man
answered
still
more
articulately
and
emphatically
,
with
a
smile
of
triumphant
hatred
,
and
again
he
looked
straight
into
Raskolnikov
’
s
pale
face
and
stricken
eyes
.
They
had
just
reached
the
cross
-
roads
.
The
man
turned
to
the
left
without
looking
behind
him
.
Raskolnikov
remained
standing
,
gazing
after
him
.
He
saw
him
turn
round
fifty
paces
away
and
look
back
at
him
still
standing
there
.
Raskolnikov
could
not
see
clearly
,
but
he
fancied
that
he
was
again
smiling
the
same
smile
of
cold
hatred
and
triumph
.
With
slow
faltering
steps
,
with
shaking
knees
,
Raskolnikov
made
his
way
back
to
his
little
garret
,
feeling
chilled
all
over
.
He
took
off
his
cap
and
put
it
on
the
table
,
and
for
ten
minutes
he
stood
without
moving
.
Then
he
sank
exhausted
on
the
sofa
and
with
a
weak
moan
of
pain
he
stretched
himself
on
it
.
So
he
lay
for
half
an
hour
.
He
thought
of
nothing
.
Some
thoughts
or
fragments
of
thoughts
,
some
images
without
order
or
coherence
floated
before
his
mind
—
faces
of
people
he
had
seen
in
his
childhood
or
met
somewhere
once
,
whom
he
would
never
have
recalled
,
the
belfry
of
the
church
at
V
.
,
the
billiard
table
in
a
restaurant
and
some
officers
playing
billiards
,
the
smell
of
cigars
in
some
underground
tobacco
shop
,
a
tavern
room
,
a
back
staircase
quite
dark
,
all
sloppy
with
dirty
water
and
strewn
with
egg
-
shells
,
and
the
Sunday
bells
floating
in
from
somewhere
.
.
.
.
The
images
followed
one
another
,
whirling
like
a
hurricane
.
Some
of
them
he
liked
and
tried
to
clutch
at
,
but
they
faded
and
all
the
while
there
was
an
oppression
within
him
,
but
it
was
not
overwhelming
,
sometimes
it
was
even
pleasant
.
.
.
.
The
slight
shivering
still
persisted
,
but
that
too
was
an
almost
pleasant
sensation
.
He
heard
the
hurried
footsteps
of
Razumihin
;
he
closed
his
eyes
and
pretended
to
be
asleep
.
Razumihin
opened
the
door
and
stood
for
some
time
in
the
doorway
as
though
hesitating
,
then
he
stepped
softly
into
the
room
and
went
cautiously
to
the
sofa
.
Raskolnikov
heard
Nastasya
’
s
whisper
:
