change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt.”
“Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
“Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. “Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
“It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
“Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”
“I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long,