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Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a

rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with

magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her

cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing

her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her

breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as in

fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that

consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of

the candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She

seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a

strange wife for Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and did

not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought,

hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close, but she had not

opened the window; a stench rose from the staircase, but the door

on to the stairs was not closed.