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Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms,

exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their

voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have

been numbers of them--almost all the inmates of the block. "But,

good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!"

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his

eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an

intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never

experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his

room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking

at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set

the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had

brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.

"You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You've been

trudging about all day, and you're shaking with fever."

"Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?"

She looked intently at him.

"Who beat the landlady?"