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"What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't be uneasy, it's all right,"

Porfiry Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said

it he took the paper and looked at it. "Yes, it's all right.

Nothing more is needed," he declared with the same rapidity and

he laid the paper on the table.

A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it

from the table and put it on his bureau.

"I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me...

formally... about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?"

Raskolnikov was beginning again. "Why did I put in 'I believe'"

passed through his mind in a flash. "Why am I so uneasy at having

put in that '_I believe_'?" came in a second flash. And he

suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with

Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an

instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully

dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing.

"It's bad, it's bad! I shall say too much again."