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"Oh, don't trouble, please," cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly

broke into a laugh. "Please don't trouble."

Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too

laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his

hysterical laughter.

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began, speaking loudly and distinctly,

though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. "I see

clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murdering that

old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part

that I am sick of this. If you find that you have a right to

prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me, arrest me.

But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and worried..."

His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not

restrain his voice.

"I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the

table. "Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't allow it."