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'A relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false note,' and then I'd tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, 'no, excuse me,' I would say, 'I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.' And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again 'change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me.

And when I had finished, I'd pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again 'change them, please,' and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I'd finished and had gone out, I'd come back, 'No, excuse me,' and ask for some explanation. That's how I'd do it." "Foo, what terrible things you say!" said Zametov, laughing. "But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip.

I dare say when it came to deeds you'd make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home- that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle- but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he' couldn't stand it. That was clear from the..." Raskolnikov seemed offended. "Clear? Why don't you catch him then?" he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov.
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A crumpled shirt front covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely: "May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not accustomed to drinking.

At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely: "May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsellor in rank. Marmeladov- such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold to inquire- have you been in the service?""No, I am studying," answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly addressed.

In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached or attempted to approach him. "A student then, or formerly a student," cried the clerk. "Just what I thought! I'm a man of experience, immense experience, sir," and he tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. "You've been a student or have attended some learned institution!...
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Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it's clear that it was only a chance that saved him- and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman's trunk, her rags- and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head.

It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!" "You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?" Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence. "Yes. You've heard of it?" "Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood."

"Yes. You've heard of it?" "Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood." "Do you know the details?" "I can't say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case- the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student's robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain..
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It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise. "Is it you?" he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. "As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you've cut me out!" he added, looking at Raskolnikov's rags. "Come sit down, you are tired, I'll be bound." And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill.

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill. "Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?" He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand. "Never mind," he said, "I have come for this; I have no lessons.... I wanted... but I don't want lessons...." "But I say! You are delirious, you know!" Razumihin observed, watching him carefully. "No, I am not." Raskolnikov got up from the sofa.

As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin's, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with any one in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin's threshold. "Good-bye," he said abruptly, and walked to the door. "Stop, stop! You queer fish." "I don't want to," said the other, again pulling away his hand.
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Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs. No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through the gateway and turned to the left in the street. He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping.

They would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. "Should he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!" At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and here understood it; it was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand.

He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and here understood it; it was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet. "My word, he has been going it!" some one shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank. He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was.
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Zossimov watched him intently. "Very good.... Going on all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten anything?" They told him, and asked what he might have. "He may have anything... soup, tea... mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he'd better not have meat either, and... but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin and he looked at each other. "No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day even... but never mind..." "To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk," said Razumihin.

"We are going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal." "I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don't know... a little, maybe... but we'll see." "Ach, what a nuisance! I've got a house-warming party tonight; it's only a step from here. Couldn't he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming?" Razumihin said to Zossimov. "Don't forget, you promised." "All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?" "Oh, nothing- tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie... just our friends."

There will be a pie... just our friends." "And who?" "All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too- he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years." "What is he?" "He's been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five- not worth talking about.... But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here... But you know him." "Is he a relation of yours, too?" "A very distant one.
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