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- 148 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
v«r. She heard nothing. WTio would have dreamed of his going
out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street.
It was nearly eight o'clock, the sun was setting. It was as sti-
fling asbefore, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town
air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy gleamed
suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow
face. He did not know and did not think where he was going,
he had one thought only "that all this must be ended to-day,
once for all, immediately; that he would not return home with-
out it,because he would not go on living like that." How, with
what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not
even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tor-
tured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must
be changed "one way or another," he repeated with desperate
and immovable self-confidence and determination.
From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the
Hay Market. A dark-haired young man w^ith a barrel organ
was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and
was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompany-
ing agirl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him.
She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with
a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a
strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by
street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the
shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five
copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand. She broke off abruptly
on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder
"Come on," and both moved on to the next shop.
"Do you like street music?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a
middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at
him, startled and wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov,
and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the
subject — "I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings —
they must be damp — when all the passers-by have pale green,
sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight
down, when there's no wind — you know what I mean? and the
street lamps shine through i*. . . ."
"I don't know. . . . Excuse me ..." muttered the stranger^
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