Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
“Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!” Razumihin cried hastily.
“What?” Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. “Oh … I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me … to his wife for the funeral. She’s a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature … three little children, starving … nothing in the house … there’s a daughter, too … perhaps you’d have given it yourself if you’d seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, si vous n’êtes pas contents .” He laughed, “That’s right, isn’t it, Dounia?”
“No, it’s not,” answered Dounia firmly.
“Bah! you, too, have ideals,” he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically.
“I ought to have considered that. … Well, that’s praiseworthy, and it’s better for you … and if you reach a line you won’t overstep, you will be unhappy … and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier. … But all that’s nonsense,” he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. “I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,” he concluded, shortly and abruptly.
“That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good,” said his mother, delighted.
“Don’t be too sure,” he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile.