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His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched,

his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"Mother, sister--how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I

hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear them

near me.... I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember....

To embrace her and think if she only knew... shall I tell her

then? That's just what I might do.... She must be the same as I

am," he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling

with delirium. "Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should

kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she

come in?... It's strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think

of her, as though I hadn't killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor

gentle things, with gentle eyes.... Dear women! Why don't they

weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything... their eyes

are soft and gentle.... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!"