Pagina 797 de 1294

The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own

way, he-he-he!"

Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on

uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and

again reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the

room, moving his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at

the ground, with his right hand behind his back, while with his

left making gesticulations that were extraordinarily incongruous

with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran about

the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as

though he were listening.

"Is he expecting anything?"