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- 480 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
as he opened the door, but he turned again to see whether the
child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was
sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her
pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed
brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. "It's a
flush of fever," thought Svidrigailov. It was like the flush from
drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her
crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was this? He sud-
denly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as
though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out
with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were not
asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile.
The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying
to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was
a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative
in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of
a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes
opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon
him; they laughed, invited him. . . . There was something infi-
nitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such
nastiness in the face of a child. "What, at five years old?" Svidri-
gailov muttered in genuine horror. "What does it mean?" And
now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her
arms. . . . "Accursed child!" Svidrigailov cried, raising his hand
to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.
He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The
candle h#id not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at
the windows.
"I've had nightmare all night!" He got up angrily, feeling
utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist out-
side and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had over-
slept himself! He got up, put on his still damp jacket and
overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and
then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and in the
most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in
large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his
elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside
him. Some flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal,
which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with
his free right hand began trying to catch one. He tried till he
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