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- 264 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see
her face; but it was she. He stood over her. "She is afraid," he
thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck
her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she
did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was fright-
ened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too,
bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and
peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold
with horror: the old woman was sitting and laugtung, shaking
with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear
it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was
opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering
within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the
old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow
of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew
louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He
was rushing away, but. the passage was full of people, the doors
of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and
everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking,
but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something
gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would
not move. . . . He tried to scream and woke up.
He drew a deep breath — but his dream seemed strangely to
persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never
seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly
closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring.
"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids
hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place,
still watching him.
He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the
door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still
keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov and noiselessly seated himself
on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him
and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It
was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as
Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a
man no longer yoxmg, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish
beard.
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get
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