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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a
well-feigned irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly
anxious about such trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or
grasping for that, and these two things may be anything but trash
in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though
it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father's.
You may laugh at me, but my mother is here," he turned suddenly
to Porfiry, "and if she knew," he turned again hurriedly to
Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, "that the watch
was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!"
"Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Quite the contrary!"
shouted Razumihin distressed.
"Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?" Raskolnikov
asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about women?"
"Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.
"Yes."
"When did she come?"
"Last night."
Porfiry paused as though reflecting.

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