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- 128 CRlME AND PUNISHMENT
"Well, he does! and what of it? I don't care if he does take
bribes," Bazumihin cried with unnatural irritability. "I don't
praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his
own way! But if one looks at men in all ways — are there many
good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn't be worth a baked
onion myself . . . perhaps with you thrown in."
"That's too little; I'd give two for you."
"And I wouldn't give more than one for you. No more of
your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair
and one must draw him not repel him. You'll never improve a
man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as
careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You don't
understand. You harm yourselves running another man down.
. . . But if you want to know, we really have something in
common."
"I should like to know what."
"Why, it's all about a house-painter. . . . We are getting him
out of a mess! Though indeed there's nothing to fear now. The
matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam."
"A painter?"
"Why, haven't I told you about it? I only told you the be-
ginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman.
Well, the painter is mixed up in it . . ."
"Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather
interested in it . . . partly . . . for one reason. ... I read about it
in the papers, too. . . ."
"Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, sud-
denly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the
time, standing by the door listening.
"Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She
used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too."
Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow
paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines
on it and began examining how many petals there were in it,
how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them.
He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut
off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the
flower.
"But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nas-
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