. what was there in that to be
proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that... and all
the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things... not exactly
dishonest, and yet.... And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm... and to
set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he'd
make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he
wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"

He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night
in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in.

He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first.
Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse.
Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see
him again about eleven.

"If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control
one's patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether _he_ will
go to them, or whether _they_ are coming here?"

"They are coming, I think," said Razumihin, understanding the object
of the question, "and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt.
I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I."

"But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty
to do besides looking after them."

"One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the way home
I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him... all sorts of things... and
amongst them that you were afraid that he... might become insane."

"You told the ladies so, too."

"I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so
seriously?"

"That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You,
yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to
him... and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with
your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was,
perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then
at the police station and that some wretch... had insulted him with this
suspicion! Hm... I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday.
These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill... and
see their fancies as solid realities.... As far as I remember, it was
Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I
know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat
of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the jokes he made
every day