“The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything will be plain, so it won’t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough left... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should be so. You know one can’t... it’s a comfort to her... she is like that, you know....”
“I understand, I understand... of course... why do you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb.”
“You gave us everything yesterday,” Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov’s poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia’s eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.
“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall have dinner together, of course. Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us.... I am afraid we have exhausted you....”
“Yes, yes, I’ll come,” he answered, getting up fussily. “But I have something to see to.”
“But surely you will have dinner together?” cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”
“Yes, yes, I am coming... of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?”
“Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining with us?”
“Please do,” added Dounia.
Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all strangely embarrassed.