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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He
positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying
idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman
might be still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the
keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe
and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it
down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and
examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the skull
was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to feel
it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was
evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of
blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at
it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it
was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of
the dress, but something held it and prevented its coming.

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