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著者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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速度 (WPM)0.0
正確性100.0%

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Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry
Petrovitch's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right
moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely put to
confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed
gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the
window where he stood looking out with his back to the company
with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry
Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously
looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner,
but he rose at the visitors' entrance and was standing in
expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with
surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at
Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov's unexpected
presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.
"I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he
began, affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov."

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