He stood in the middle of the room, looking around in painful bewilderment; he went over to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not it. Suddenly, as if recollecting, he rushed to the corner where the hole in the wallpaper was, began examining everything, thrust his hand into the hole, felt around in it, but that was not it either. He went to the stove, opened it, and began feeling around in the ashes: the bits of frayed cuff from his trousers and the torn pieces of his pocket were still lying there as he had thrown them in, so no one had looked there! Then he remembered the sock that Razumikhin had just been telling him about. Sure enough, there it was lying on the sofa under the blanket, but it had gotten so rubbed and dirty in the meantime that Zamyotov certainly could not have noticed anything.

“Bah, Zamyotov! ... the office! ... And why are they calling me to the office? Where is the summons? Bah! ... I've mixed it all up: they summoned me before! I examined the sock that time, too, and now...now I've been sick. And why did Zamyotov come here? Why did Razumikhin bring him?” he was muttering weakly, sitting down on the sofa again. “What is it? Am I still delirious, or is this real? It seems real. . . Ah, I remember: I must flee, flee quickly! I must, I must flee! Yes...but where? And where are my clothes? No boots! They took them away! Hid them! I understand! Ah, here's my coat—they missed it! Here's the money on the table, thank God! Here's the promissory note...I'll take the money and leave, and rent another apartment, and they won't find me! But what about the address bureau? They will find me! Razumikhin will. Better to flee altogether...far away...to America, and spit on all of them! And take the promissory note with me...it will be useful there. What else shall I take? They think I'm sick! They don't know I can walk, heh, heh, heh! ... I could tell by their eyes that they know everything! If only I can manage to get downstairs! But what if they have guards standing there—policemen! What's this, tea? Ah, there's some beer left, half a bottle, cold!”

He grabbed the bottle, which still held enough for a full glass, and delightedly emptied it at one gulp, as if extinguishing a fire in his chest. But in less than a minute the beer went to his head, and a light and even pleasant chill ran down his spine. He lay back and pulled the blanket over him. His thoughts, ill and incoherent to begin with, were becoming more and more confused, and sleep, light and pleasant, soon enveloped him. He settled his head delightedly on the pillow, wrapped himself tightly in the soft, quilted blanket that covered him now in place of the former tattered greatcoat, and fell into a deep, sound, healing sleep.

He woke up on hearing someone come into his room, opened his eyes, and saw Razumikhin, who had flung the door wide open and was standing on the threshold, uncertain whether he should enter or not. Raskolnikov quickly raised himself on the sofa and looked at him as if he were trying hard to recall something.

“Ah, since you're not asleep, here I am! Nastasya, drag that bundle up here!” Razumikhin called down to her. “You'll have the accounting presently...”

“What time is it?” Raskolnikov asked, looking around in alarm.

“You had yourself a good sleep, brother; it's evening outside, must be around six o'clock. You've slept more than six hours . . .”

“Lord! What's the matter with me! . . .”

“And why not? You're welcome to it! Are you in a hurry? Seeing a girl, or something? We've got all the time in the world. I've been waiting for you three hours already; I looked in twice, but you were asleep. I stopped twice at Zossimov's—no one home, and that's that! Never mind, he'll come! ... I also did some little errands of my own. I got moved in today, completely moved in, with my uncle. I have an uncle now...So, well, devil take it, now to business! ... Give me the bundle, Nastenka. Here we go...And how are you feeling, brother?”

“I'm well. I'm not sick...Listen, Razumikhin, were you here long?”

“Three hours, I told you.”

“No, but before?”

“Before when?”

“How long have you been coming here?”

“But I told you all that earlier; don't you remember?”

Raskolnikov fell to thinking. The morning appeared to him as in a dream. He could not recall it by himself, and looked questioningly at Razumikhin.

“Hm!” said the latter, “he forgot! I rather fancied this morning that you still weren't in your right... Now that you've slept, you're better...Really, you look all better. Good boy! Well, to business! You'll remember now. Look here, my dear man.”

He began untying the bundle, which appeared to interest him greatly.

“Believe me, brother, I've taken this especially to heart. Because we have to make a human being out of you, after all. Let's get started: we'll begin from the top. Take a look at this little chapeau,” he began, pulling a rather nice but at the same time very ordinary and cheap cap from the bundle. “Allow me to try it on you.”

“Later, after,” Raskolnikov spoke, peevishly waving it away.

“No, no, brother Rodya, don't resist, later will be too late; besides, I won't be able to sleep all night, because I bought it without any measurements, at a guess. Just right!” he exclaimed triumphantly, having tried it on him. “Just the right size! Headgear, brother, is the foremost thing in an outfit, a recommendation in its way. Every time my friend Tolstyakov goes into some public place where everyone else is standing around in hats and caps, he's forced to remove his lid. Everyone thinks he does it out of slavish feelings, but it's simply because he's ashamed of that bird's nest of his—such a bashful man! Well, Nastenka, here's two examples of headgear for you: this Palmerston” (he took from the corner Raskolnikov's battered top hat, which for some unknown reason he called a Palmerston), “and this piece of jewelrywork. Give us an estimate, Rodya; how much do you think I paid for it? Nastasyushka?” he turned to her, seeing that the other said nothing.

“Offhand I'd say twenty kopecks,” Nastasya replied.

“Twenty kopecks? Fool!” he cried, getting offended. “Even you would cost more than twenty kopecks these days—eighty kopecks! And that's only because it's second-hand. True, there's one condition: if you wear this one out, next year they'll give you another for nothing, by God! Well, sir, now let's start on the United Pants of America, as we used to call them in school. I warn you, I'm proud of them,” and he displayed before Raskolnikov a pair of gray trousers, made of lightweight summer wool. “Not a hole, not a spot, and though they've seen some wear, they're quite acceptable—and there's a matching waistcoat, the same color, as fashion dictates. And the truth is they're even better second-hand: softer, tenderer...You see, Rodya, to make a career in the world, it's enough, in my opinion, if you always observe the season; don't ask for asparagus in January, and you'll have a few more bills in your purse; the same goes for this purchase. The season now is summer, so I made a summer purchase, because by fall the season will call for warmer material anyway, and you'll have to throw these out...more particularly because by then they'll have had time to fall apart anyway, if not from increased luxury, then from inner disarray. So, give me your estimate! How much do you think? Two roubles twenty-five kopecks! And, remember, again with the same condition: you wear these out, next year you get another pair free! At Fedyaev's shop they don't do business any other way: you pay once, and it's enough for your whole life, because in any case you'd never go back there again. Now, sir, let's look at the boots—how do you like them? You can see they've been worn, but they'll do for about two months, because they're foreign goods and foreign workmanship: a secretary from the British Embassy dumped them on the flea market last week; he'd worn them for only six days, but he was badly in need of money. Price—one rouble fifty kopecks. Lucky?”