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He went up to Razumihin's room on the fifth floor.The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. 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. "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."
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