blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a kopeck. You’ve cross-examined my landlady, I’ll be bound. … Well, that’s enough! Assez causé! Till we meet again!”
He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture.
Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly.
Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed.
Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively.
“Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,” he decided.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes.
“So here you are!” he shouted at the top of his voice—“you ran away from your bed! And here I’ve been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess!