seen the things which Jesus did believed on Him.”
She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly.
“That is all about the raising of Lazarus,” she whispered severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly.
The candle-end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading together the eternal book.
Five minutes or more passed.
“I came to speak of something,” Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it.
“I have abandoned my family today,” he said, “my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I’ve broken with them completely.”
“What for?” asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with horror.
“I have only you now,” he added. “Let us go together. … I’ve come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our way together!”
His eyes glittered “as though he were mad,” Sonia thought, in her turn.
“Go where?” she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back.
“How do I know? I only know it’s the same road, I know that and nothing more. It’s the same goal!”
She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was