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"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too... what did you come to see me for, damn you?" "I don't want... translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs. "Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence. "Hey, there! Where are you living?" No answer. "Well, confound you then!" But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident.

"Hey, there! Where are you living?" No answer. "Well, confound you then!" But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic).

He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course. "Serves him right!" "A pickpocket I dare say." "Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him." "It's a regular profession, that's what it is." But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt some one thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter, wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.
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