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"He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov.

"We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception,

something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all

that, what if it's one little room, like a bath house in the

country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that's

all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that."

"Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting

than that?" Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish.

"Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you

know it's what I would certainly have made it," answered

Svidrigailov, with a vague smile.

This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began

laughing.