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"The same old woman," Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper,

not heeding Zametov's explanation, "about whom you were talking

in the police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you

understand now?"

"What do you mean? Understand... what?" Zametov brought out,

almost alarmed.

Raskolnikov's set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and

he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as

though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he

recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in

the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind

the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and

shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear

at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh,

and laugh, and laugh!

"You are either mad, or..." began Zametov, and he broke off, as

though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his

mind.

"Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!"