om the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes.
Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and
glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back
to him, blowing up the landlady's samovar. She heard nothing. Who would
have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the
street.

It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as
before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head
felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed suddenly in his
feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and
did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: "that all
_this_ must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would
not return home without it, because he _would not go on living like
that_." How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it,
he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought
tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be
changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate and immovable
self-confidence and determination.

From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay
Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in
the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very
sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood
on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a
mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very
old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and
coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from
the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five
copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly on a
sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on,"
and both moved on to the next shop.

"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged
man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering.

"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his
manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it
on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the
passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet
snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I
mean?--and the street lamps s