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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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Look, he's jumped up and is making his bows, they must be quite
starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They don't make a
noise, anyway, though I'm really afraid for our landlady's silver
spoons... Amalia Ivanovna!" she addressed her suddenly, almost
aloud, "if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won't be
responsible, I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!" She laughed turning to
Raskolnikov, and again nodding towards the landlady, in high glee
at her sally. "She didn't understand, she didn't understand
again! Look how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, a real owl!
An owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!"
Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of coughing
that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on her
forehead and her handkerchief was stained with blood. She showed
Raskolnikov the blood in silence, and as soon as she could get
her breath began whispering to him again with extreme animation
and a hectic flush on her cheeks.

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