pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: > “that all this must be ended today, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he would not go on living like that .” How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed * “one way or another,” he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market.
A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him.
She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop.
Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five kopeck piece and put it in the girl’s hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder “Come on,” and both moved on to the next shop.
“Do you like street music?”