Fyodor Dostoevsky

unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it

were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though someone were suddenly

jumping forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been

asleep but lying half-conscious.

It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched

room, cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard

boxes and all sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been

burning on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to

time. In a few minutes there would be complete darkness.

I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind

at once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce

upon me again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point

seemed continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it

my dreams moved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had

happened to me in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the

far, far away past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down.

My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over

me, rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spite

seemed surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I saw

beside me two wide open eyes scrutinising me curiously and persistently.

The look in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it were utterly

remote; it weighed upon me.

A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a

horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and

mouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes,

beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during those two

hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact,

considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some reason

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