“Yes... I knew him.... He hadn’t been here long.”
“Yes, that’s so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way.... He left in his notebook a few words: that he dies in full possession of his faculties and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come to know him?”
“I... was acquainted... my sister was governess in his family.”
“Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had no suspicion?”
“I saw him yesterday... he... was drinking wine; I knew nothing.”
Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling him.
“You’ve turned pale again. It’s so stuffy here...”
“Yes, I must go,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Excuse my troubling you....”
“Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It’s a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so.”
Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.