“She’s drunk herself out of her senses,” the same woman’s voice wailed at her side. “Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her⁠—and here she’s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder.⁠ ⁠…”

The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station.⁠ ⁠… Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. “No, that’s loathsome⁠ ⁠… water⁠ ⁠… it’s not good enough,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing will come of it,” he added, “no use to wait. What about the police office⁠ ⁠… ? And why isn’t Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o’clock.⁠ ⁠…” He turned his back to the railing and looked about him.