era sencillo y legítimo, y en cualquier caso la ayuda estaba más cerca allí. Levantaron al herido; la gente se ofreció como voluntaria para ayudar.
La casa de Kozel estaba a treinta pasos. Raskolnikov caminaba detrás, sosteniendo con cuidado la cabeza de Marmeladov y señalando el camino.
—¡Por aquí, por aquí! Debemos subirlo con la cabeza por delante. ¡Date la vuelta! Pagaré, haré que valga la pena —murmuró.
Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him—heels together and toes turned out.
He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen,