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They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left

without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing

after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back

at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly,

but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold

hatred and triumph.

With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made

his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He

took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he

stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with

a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for

half an hour.