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"Lizaveta was murdered, too," Nastasya blurted out, suddenly

addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time,

standing by the door listening.

"Lizaveta," murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

"Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn't you know her? She used to

come here. She mended a shirt for you, too."

Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper

he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and

began examining how many petals there were in it, how many

scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his

arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did

not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.

"But what about the painter?" Zossimov interrupted Nastasya's

chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.

"Why, he was accused of the murder," Razumihin went on hotly.

"Was there evidence against him then?"