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"A capital thing, a capital thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch,

as though he had just thought of something quite different. "Yes,

a capital thing," he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at

Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him.

This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with

the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his

visitor.

But this stirred Raskolnikov's spleen more than ever and he could

not resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge.