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- 300 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
On a broken, chair stood a candle in a battered copper candle-
stick.
"It's you! Good heavens!" cried Sonia weakly and she stood
rooted to the spot.
"Which is your room? This way?" and Raskolnikov, trying
not to look at her, hastened in.
A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down
the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him
inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unex-
pected visit. The colour rushed suddenly to her pale face and
tears came into her eyes. . . . She felt sick and ashamed and
happy, too. . . . Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat on
a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance.
It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only
one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led
in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the right hand
wall was another door, always kept locked. That led to the next
flat, which formed a separate lodging. Soma's room looked like
a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle and this gave it a
grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out
on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute
angle, and it was diflBcult to see in it without very strong light.
The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was
scarcely any furniture in the big room: in the corner on the
right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain,
deal table covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall,
close to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs
stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute angle
stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as it were,
lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow,
scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the corners. It
must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was
every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.
Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively
and unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at
last to tremble with terror, as though she was standing before
her judge and the arbiter of her destinies.
"I am late. . . . It's eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting
his eyes.
"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh, yes, it is/* she added, hastily,
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