“Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother.⁠ ⁠… What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it’s clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances⁠ ⁠… and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness⁠ ⁠… I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own⁠ ⁠… I tell you, he’s mad on mental diseases. But don’t you mind him⁠ ⁠…”

For half a minute both were silent.

“Listen, Razumihin,” began Raskolnikov, “I want to tell you plainly: I’ve just been at a deathbed, a clerk who died⁠ ⁠… I gave them all my money⁠ ⁠… and besides I’ve just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same⁠ ⁠… in fact I saw someone else there⁠ ⁠… with a flame-coloured feather⁠ ⁠… but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me⁠ ⁠… we shall be at the stairs directly⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” Razumihin asked anxiously.