. he too... but why did they put me down as mad?"

"Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother.... What struck him,
you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it's
clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances... and
how that irritated you and worked in with your illness... I am a little
drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own... I
tell you, he's mad on mental diseases. But don't you mind him..."

For half a minute both were silent.

"Listen, Razumihin," began Raskolnikov, "I want to tell you plainly:
I've just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died... I gave them all my
money... and besides I've just been kissed by someone who, if I had
killed anyone, would just the same... in fact I saw someone else
there... with a flame-coloured feather... but I am talking nonsense; I
am very weak, support me... we shall be at the stairs directly..."

"What's the matter? What's the matter with you?" Razumihin asked
anxiously.

"I am a little giddy, but that's not the point, I am so sad, so sad...
like a woman. Look, what's that? Look, look!"

"What is it?"

"Don't you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack..."

They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level
of the landlady's door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that
there was a light in Raskolnikov's garret.

"Queer! Nastasya, perhaps," observed Razumihin.

"She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago,
but... I don't care! Good-bye!"

"What do you mean? I am coming with you, we'll come in together!"

"I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say
good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!"

"What's the matter with you, Rodya?"

"Nothing... come along... you shall be witness."

They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that
perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. "Ah, I've upset him with my
chatter!" he muttered to himself.

When they reached the door they heard voices in the room.

"What is it?" cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the
door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered.

His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an
hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of
them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would
arrive immediately, had been repeated to