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He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be
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in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have
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given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he
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would not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and
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disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There
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was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd,
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stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short
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jerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him,
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though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he
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was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly
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came over him, overwhelming him body and mind.
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He suddenly recalled Sonia’s words, “Go to the cross-roads, bow down to
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the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say
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aloud to the whole world, ‘I am a murderer.’” He trembled, remembering
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that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially
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of the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively
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clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came
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over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and
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spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the
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tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....
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He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and
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kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed
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down a second time.
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“He’s boozed,” a youth near him observed.
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There was a roar of laughter.
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“He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children
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and his country. He’s bowing down to all the world and kissing the great
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city of St. Petersburg and its pavement,” added a workman who was a
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little drunk.
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“Quite a young man, too!” observed a third.
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“And a gentleman,” someone observed soberly.
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“There’s no knowing who’s a gentleman and who isn’t nowadays.”
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These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, “I am
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a murderer,” which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips,
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died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking
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round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a
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glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt
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that it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he
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saw, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding
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from him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had
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followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt
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and knew once for all that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow
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him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his
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heart... but he was just reaching the fatal place.
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He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third
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storey. “I shall be some time going up,” he thought. He felt as though
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the fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time
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left for consideration.
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Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral
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stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and
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the same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been
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here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but
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still they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to
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collect himself, so as to enter _like a man_. “But why? what for?” he
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wondered, reflecting. “If I must drink the cup what difference does it
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make? The more revolting the better.” He imagined for an instant the
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figure of the “explosive lieutenant,” Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually
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going to him? Couldn’t he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch?
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Couldn’t he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s lodgings?
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At least then it would be done privately.... No, no! To the “explosive
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lieutenant”! If he must drink it, drink it off at once.
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Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office.
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There were very few people in it this time--only a house porter and a
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peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen.
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Raskolnikov walked into the next room. “Perhaps I still need not speak,”
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passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was
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settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was
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seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.
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“No one in?” Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.
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“Whom do you want?”
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“A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the
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Russian... how does it go on in the fairy tale... I’ve forgotten! ‘At
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your service!’” a familiar voice cried suddenly.
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Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He
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had just come in from the third room. “It is the hand of fate,” thought
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Raskolnikov. “Why is he here?”
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“You’ve come to see us? What about?” cried Ilya Petrovitch. He
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was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle
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exhilarated. “If it’s on business you are rather early.[*] It’s only a
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chance that I am here... however I’ll do what I can. I must admit, I...
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what is it, what is it? Excuse me....”
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[*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after
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