should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in? … It’s strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes. … Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything … their eyes are soft and gentle. … Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn’t remember how he got into the street.
It was late evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air.
There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water.
Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten.