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- Федор Достоевский
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Looking
round
once
more
,
with
his
hand
already
in
his
pocket
,
he
noticed
against
the
outer
wall
,
between
the
entrance
and
the
sink
,
a
big
unhewn
stone
,
weighing
perhaps
sixty
pounds
.
The
other
side
of
the
wall
was
a
street
.
He
could
hear
passers
-
by
,
always
numerous
in
that
part
,
but
he
could
not
be
seen
from
the
entrance
,
unless
someone
came
in
from
the
street
,
which
might
well
happen
indeed
,
so
there
was
need
of
haste
.
He
bent
down
over
the
stone
,
seized
the
top
of
it
firmly
in
both
hands
,
and
using
all
his
strength
turned
it
over
.
Under
the
stone
was
a
small
hollow
in
the
ground
,
and
he
immediately
emptied
his
pocket
into
it
.
The
purse
lay
at
the
top
,
and
yet
the
hollow
was
not
filled
up
.
Then
he
seized
the
stone
again
and
with
one
twist
turned
it
back
,
so
that
it
was
in
the
same
position
again
,
though
it
stood
a
very
little
higher
.
But
he
scraped
the
earth
about
it
and
pressed
it
at
the
edges
with
his
foot
.
Nothing
could
be
noticed
.
Then
he
went
out
,
and
turned
into
the
square
.
Again
an
intense
,
almost
unbearable
joy
overwhelmed
him
for
an
instant
,
as
it
had
in
the
police
-
office
.
“
I
have
buried
my
tracks
!
And
who
,
who
can
think
of
looking
under
that
stone
?
It
has
been
lying
there
most
likely
ever
since
the
house
was
built
,
and
will
lie
as
many
years
more
.
And
if
it
were
found
,
who
would
think
of
me
?
It
is
all
over
!
No
clue
!
”
And
he
laughed
.
Yes
,
he
remembered
that
he
began
laughing
a
thin
,
nervous
noiseless
laugh
,
and
went
on
laughing
all
the
time
he
was
crossing
the
square
.
But
when
he
reached
the
K
—
—
Boulevard
where
two
days
before
he
had
come
upon
that
girl
,
his
laughter
suddenly
ceased
.
Other
ideas
crept
into
his
mind
.
He
felt
all
at
once
that
it
would
be
loathsome
to
pass
that
seat
on
which
after
the
girl
was
gone
,
he
had
sat
and
pondered
,
and
that
it
would
be
hateful
,
too
,
to
meet
that
whiskered
policeman
to
whom
he
had
given
the
twenty
copecks
:
“
Damn
him
!
”
He
walked
,
looking
about
him
angrily
and
distractedly
.
All
his
ideas
now
seemed
to
be
circling
round
some
single
point
,
and
he
felt
that
there
really
was
such
a
point
,
and
that
now
,
now
,
he
was
left
facing
that
point
—
and
for
the
first
time
,
indeed
,
during
the
last
two
months
.
“
Damn
it
all
!
”
he
thought
suddenly
,
in
a
fit
of
ungovernable
fury
.
“
If
it
has
begun
,
then
it
has
begun
.
Hang
the
new
life
!
Good
Lord
,
how
stupid
it
is
!
.
.
.
And
what
lies
I
told
to
-
day
!
How
despicably
I
fawned
upon
that
wretched
Ilya
Petrovitch
!
But
that
is
all
folly
!
What
do
I
care
for
them
all
,
and
my
fawning
upon
them
!
It
is
not
that
at
all
!
It
is
not
that
at
all
!
”
Suddenly
he
stopped
;
a
new
utterly
unexpected
and
exceedingly
simple
question
perplexed
and
bitterly
confounded
him
.
“
If
it
all
has
really
been
done
deliberately
and
not
idiotically
,
if
I
really
had
a
certain
and
definite
object
,
how
is
it
I
did
not
even
glance
into
the
purse
and
don
’
t
know
what
I
had
there
,
for
which
I
have
undergone
these
agonies
,
and
have
deliberately
undertaken
this
base
,
filthy
degrading
business
?
And
here
I
wanted
at
once
to
throw
into
the
water
the
purse
together
with
all
the
things
which
I
had
not
seen
either
.
.
.
how
’
s
that
?
”
Yes
,
that
was
so
,
that
was
all
so
.
Yet
he
had
known
it
all
before
,
and
it
was
not
a
new
question
for
him
,
even
when
it
was
decided
in
the
night
without
hesitation
and
consideration
,
as
though
so
it
must
be
,
as
though
it
could
not
possibly
be
otherwise
.
.
.
.
Yes
,
he
had
known
it
all
,
and
understood
it
all
;
it
surely
had
all
been
settled
even
yesterday
at
the
moment
when
he
was
bending
over
the
box
and
pulling
the
jewel
-
cases
out
of
it
.
.
.
.
Yes
,
so
it
was
.
“
It
is
because
I
am
very
ill
,
”
he
decided
grimly
at
last
,
“
I
have
been
worrying
and
fretting
myself
,
and
I
don
’
t
know
what
I
am
doing
.
.
.
.
Yesterday
and
the
day
before
yesterday
and
all
this
time
I
have
been
worrying
myself
.
.
.
.
I
shall
get
well
and
I
shall
not
worry
.
.
.
.
But
what
if
I
don
’
t
get
well
at
all
?
Good
God
,
how
sick
I
am
of
it
all
!
”
