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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?" he asked him in a
whisper.
"Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come
in.... Why?"
"Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to
leave me alone with this... young woman. I only want a few words
with her, but God knows what they may make of it. I shouldn't
like Raskolnikov to repeat anything.... You understand what I
mean?"
"I understand!" Lebeziatnikov saw the point. "Yes, you are
right.... Of course, I am convinced personally that you have no
reason to be uneasy, but... still, you are right. Certainly I'll
stay. I'll stand here at the window and not be in your way... I
think you are right..."
Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia,
looked attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignified,
even severe expression, as much as to say, "don't you make any
mistake, madam." Sonia was overwhelmed with embarrassment.

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