“Am I to come in or go away?” he asked uncertainly.
“I’ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come there.”
Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.
“I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself.”
He glanced at her mistrustfully.
“Where were you all night?”
“I don’t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there, but … I couldn’t make up my mind,” he whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.
“Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!”
Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
“I haven’t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother’s arms; I haven’t faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don’t know how it is, Dounia, I don’t understand it.”
“Have you been at mother’s? Have you told her?” cried Dounia, horror-stricken. “Surely you haven’t done that?”
“No, I didn’t tell her … in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don’t know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia.”