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But of that--of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute

he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He

worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew

into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he

struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always

prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and

forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.

It happened at ten o'clock in the morning. On fine days the sun

shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on

the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was

standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who

was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a

beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a

messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door.

Raskolnikov sat up.

"Who is this, Nastasya?" he asked, pointing to the young man.

"I say, he's himself again!" she said.