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"Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I

dreamed of Marfa Petrovna... she was all in white... she came up

to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as

though she were blaming me.... Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me!

You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!"

"No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"

"She died suddenly; and only fancy..."

"Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "He doesn't know who Marfa

Petrovna is."

"Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about

us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don't know what I am

thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a

providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all

about us. I look on you as a relation.... Don't be angry with me

for saying so. Dear me, what's the matter with your right hand?

Have you knocked it?"

"Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumihin overjoyed.