Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair.
He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven.
He had on a light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive.
In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant.
All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.
“I’ve been to you twice today, brother. You see, he’s come to himself,” cried Razumihin.
“I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.
“He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just changed his linen and he almost cried.”
“That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it. … His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?”
“I am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering