Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist.
He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home.
It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.
Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion. …
It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream.
Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard.
He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony.
But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs.
The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering.
All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He