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"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and

his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I

like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be

damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or

better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's

no wind--you know what I mean?--and the street lamps shine

through it..."

"I don't know.... Excuse me..." muttered the stranger, frightened

by the question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed

over to the other side of the street.

Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the

Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with

Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he

stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt

who stood gaping before a corn chandler's shop.

"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this

corner?"