“Mother, sister⁠—how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can’t bear them near me.⁠ ⁠… I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember.⁠ ⁠… To embrace her and think if she only knew⁠ ⁠… shall I tell her then? That’s just what I might do.⁠ ⁠… She must be the same as I am,” he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. “Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in?⁠ ⁠… It’s strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes.⁠ ⁠… Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything⁠ ⁠… their eyes are soft and gentle.⁠ ⁠… Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”