a student, I live in Shil’s house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me.” Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street.
“Why have you been to the flat?”
“To look at it.”
“What is there to look at?”
“Take him straight to the police station,” the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly.
Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones:
“Yes, take him,” the man went on more confidently. “Why was he going into that, what’s in his mind, eh?”
“He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter with him,” muttered the workman.
“But what do you want?” the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest—“Why are you