A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, wont you come then?
I dont care a damn for him.
So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.
Do tell me, please, what you or heZossimov nodded at Raskolnikov can have in common with this Zametov?
Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you wont venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, thats the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person.
Though he does take bribes.
Well, he does! and what of it? I dont care if he does take bribes, Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. I dont praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all waysare there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldnt be worth a baked onion myself perhaps with you thrown in.
Thats too little; Id give two for you.
And I wouldnt give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel him. Youll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You dont understand. You harm yourselves running another man down. But if you want to know, we really have something in common.
I should like to know what.
Why, its all about a house-painter. We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed theres nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.
Why, havent I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker- woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it
Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it partly for one reason. I read about it in the papers, too.
Lizaveta was murdered, too, Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
Lizaveta, murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didnt you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.
Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.
|Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd, and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission. See our FAQ for more details.|