“Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it... partly... for one reason.... I read about it in the papers, too....”
“Lizaveta was murdered, too,” Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.
“Lizaveta,” murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
“Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.”
Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.