listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction.
“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again.
“I want to take a flat,” he said. “I am looking round.”
“It’s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter.”
“The floors have been washed, will they be painted?” Raskolnikov went on. “Is there no blood?”
“Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there.”
“But who are you?” the workman cried, uneasy.
“Who am I?”