“I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me⁠ ⁠… formally⁠ ⁠… about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?” Raskolnikov was beginning again. “Why did I put in ‘I believe’ ” passed through his mind in a flash. “Why am I so uneasy at having put in that ‘ I believe ’?” came in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. “It’s bad, it’s bad! I shall say too much again.”

“Yes, yes, yes! There’s no hurry, there’s no hurry,” muttered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov’s suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in the face.