Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed.
“Mother,” he said, firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya’s urgent and challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction.
Dounia gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinised her with perplexity.
Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever.
“I wanted to ask you,” said Raskolnikov, hastily, “how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?”
“No, that was all right … it was too evident, the cause of death … they did not worry us … only the lodgers are angry.”
“Why?”
“At the body’s remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, today, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until tomorrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it’s necessary …”
“Today, then?”
“She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church tomorrow for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch.”