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He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa

again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man's head,

raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each

spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the

principal and most effective means towards his friend's recovery.

Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt

quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and

could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps

could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal,

cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying

low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full

possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out

what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of

repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly

released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank

back on the pillow.