thing either. … Don’t torture me, Sonia.”
Sonia clasped her hands.
“Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believe it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet rob and murder! Ah,” she cried suddenly, “that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna … that money. … Can that money …”
“No, Sonia,” he broke in hurriedly, “that money was not it. Don’t worry yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the day I gave it to you. … Razumihin saw it … he received it for me. … That money was mine—my own.”
Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to comprehend.
“And that money. … I don’t even know really whether there was any money,” he added softly, as though reflecting. “I took a purse