saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It's fine soup."
When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya
sat down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country
peasant-woman and a very talkative one.
"Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you," she
said.
He scowled.
"To the police? What does she want?"
"You don't pay her money and you won't turn out of the room. That's what
she wants, to be sure."
"The devil, that's the last straw," he muttered, grinding his teeth,
"no, that would not suit me... just now. She is a fool," he added aloud.
"I'll go and talk to her to-day."
"Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so
clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One
time you used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you
do nothing now?"
"I am doing..." Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly.
"What are you doing?"
"Work..."
"What sort of work?"
"I am thinking," he answered seriously after a pause.
Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter
and when anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and
shaking all over till she felt ill.
"And have you made much money by your thinking?" she managed to
articulate at last.
"One can't go out to give lessons without boots. And I'm sick of it."
"Don't quarrel with your bread and butter."
"They pay so little for lessons. What's the use of a few coppers?" he
answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought.
"And you want to get a fortune all at once?"
He looked at her strangely.
"Yes, I want a fortune," he answered firmly, after a brief pause.
"Don't be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the
loaf or not?"
"As you please."
"Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out."
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