rried..."

His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain
his voice.

"I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. "Do
you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't allow it."

"Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently
quite frightened. "Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the
matter with you?"

"I won't allow it," Raskolnikov shouted again.

"Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what could we
say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face
close to Raskolnikov's.

"I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically,
but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.

Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.

"Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You're
ill!" and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a
decanter of water in the corner. "Come, drink a little," he whispered,
rushing up to him with the decanter. "It will be sure to do you good."

Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov
was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take
the water, however.

"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of your
mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little."

He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to
his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.

"Yes, you've had a little attack! You'll bring back your illness again,
my dear fellow," Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy,
though he still looked rather disconcerted. "Good heavens, you must
take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me
yesterday--I know, I know, I've a nasty, ironical temper, but what they
made of it!... Good heavens, he came yesterday after you'd been. We
dined and he talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands
in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy's sake, sit
down!"

"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,"
Raskolnikov answered sharply.

"You knew?"

"I knew. What of it?"

"Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you;
I know about everything. I know how you went _to take a flat_ at night
when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so
that the workmen and the porter did not know what to