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- 162 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal.
The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a
moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to
the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs
in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back.
"A woman drowning! A woman drowning!" shouted dozens
of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spec-
tators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, press-
ing up behind him.
"Mercy on it! it's our Afrosinya!" a woman cried tearfully
close by. "Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!"
"A boat, a boat!" was shouted in the crowd. But there was
no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal,
threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water.
It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards
from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right
hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to
him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid
her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon re-
covered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing
and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands.
She said nothing.
"She's drunk herself out of her senses," the same woman's
voice wailed at her side. "Out of her senses. The other day she
tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop
just now, left my little girl to look after her — and here she's
in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live
close by, the second house from the end, see yonder. ..."
The crowd broke up, the police still remained round the
woman, some one mentioned the police station. . . . Raskolnikov
looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy.
He felt disgusted. No, that's loathsome . . . water . . . it's not
good enough," he muttered to himself. "Nothing will come of
it," he added, "no use to wait. What about the police office . . . ?
And why isn't Zametov at the police office? The police office is
open till ten o'clock. ..." He turned his back to the railingand looked about him.
"Very well then!" he said resolutely; he moved from the
bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His
heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even
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