第17章

第17章“yourstilldeath,

“pulcheriaraskolnikov.”

almostfromthefirst,whilehereadtheletter,raskolnikov’sfacewaswetwithtears;butwhenhefinishedit,hisfacewaspaleanddistortedandabitter,wrathfulandmalignantsmilewasonhislips.helaidhisheaddownonhisthreadbaredirtypillowandpondered,ponderedalongtime.hisheartwasbeatingviolently,andhisbrainwasinaturmoil.atlasthefeltcrampedandstifledinthelittleyellowroomthatwaslikeacupboardorabox.hiseyesandhismindcravedforspace.hetookuphishatandwentout,thistimewithoutdreadofmeetinganyone;hehadforgottenhisdread.heturnedinthedirectionofthevassilyevskyostrov,walkingalongvassilyevskyprospect,asthoughhasteningonsomebusiness,buthewalked,ashishabitwas,withoutnoticinghisway,mutteringandevenspeakingaloudtohimself,totheastonishmentofthepassers-by.manyofthemtookhimtobedrunk.