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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some
moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and
waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and
closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was
standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved
towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to
Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to
restrain himself darted at the latter.
"You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily.
"I didn't ask you what came over you.... Speak, did you kill
them?"
"I am the murderer.... I want to give evidence," Nikolay
pronounced.
"Ach! What did you kill them with?"
"An axe. I had it ready."
"Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?"
Nikolay did not understand the question.
"Did you do it alone?"
"Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it."

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