Crime And Punishment / Преступление и наказание

What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That’s what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin pulling it, that’s not what I am afraid of… it’s her eyes I am afraid of… yes, her eyes… the red on her cheeks, too, frightens me… and her breathing too… Have you noticed how people in that disease breathe… when they are excited? I am frightened of the children’s crying, too… For if Sonia has not taken them food… I don’t know what’s happened! I don’t know! But blows I am not afraid of… Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment.

In fact I can’t get on without it… It’s better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart… it’s better so… There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet-maker… a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!”

They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o’clock and although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs.

A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children’s garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered.

At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but their room was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel’s flat was divided stood half open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps.