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The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and

turned to go away.

"He's downright ill!" observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off

him. The porter turned his head for a moment. "He's been in a

fever since yesterday," she added.

Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands,

without opening it. "Don't you get up then," Nastasya went on

compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from

the sofa. "You're ill, and so don't go; there's no such hurry.

What have you got there?"

He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from

his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had

been asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it,

he remembered that half waking up in his fever, he had grasped

all this tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep again.

"Look at the rags he's collected and sleeps with them, as though

he has got hold of a treasure..."

And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.