that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His

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that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,bob体育是什么that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? Histhat night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His

that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,bobo体育下载that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? Hisbob综合体育下载苹果

that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,bob娱乐下载地址that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His

that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,bob体育投注官网,bob体育安卓版下载that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His

that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His,bobapp体育下载安装that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? Hisbob综合体育网页版,that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, shan't we?" And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. "Shan't we?" he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another." "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov. "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?" "To a funeral." "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well." "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one." "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!" "He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?" "How could I help noticing it!" "He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers." "Yes, of Gogol." "Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you." "So shall I." Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing- something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His

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