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"Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch,

apparently quite frightened. "Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow,

what is the matter with you?"

"I won't allow it," Raskolnikov shouted again.

"Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what

could we say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror,

bringing his face close to Raskolnikov's.

"I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated

mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.

Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.

"Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow.

You're ill!" and he was running to the door to call for some when

he found a decanter of water in the corner. "Come, drink a

little," he whispered, rushing up to him with the decanter. "It

will be sure to do you good."

Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm and sympathy were so natural that

Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with wild

curiosity. He did not take the water, however.