“And why not?” Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat. “I didn’t quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning on it … though I was very much struck by your face this morning.”
“Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked uneasily.
“I saw you by chance. … I kept fancying there is something about you like me. … But don’t be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right with cardsharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael’s Madonna in Madam Prilukov’s album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna’s side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky’s house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps.”
“Oh, all right. Are