"Because you don't pay and won't go. That's why."
"The deuce!" growled be between his teeth, "that is the finishing stroke; it comes at a most unfortunate juncture. She is a fool," added he aloud. "I shall go and talk to her to-morrow."
"She is, of course, just as much of a fool as I am; but why do you, who are so intelligent, lie here doing nothing? How is it you never seem to have money for anything now? You used to give lessons, I hear; how is it you do nothing now?"
"I am engaged on something," returned Raskolnikoff dryly and half reluctantly.
"On what?"
"Some work—"
"What sort of work?"
"Thinking," replied he gravely, after a short silence.
Nastasia was convulsed. She was of a merry disposition, but her laughter was always noiseless, an internal convulsion which made her actually writhe with pain. "And does your thinking bring you any money?" asked she, as soon as she could manage to speak.
"Well! I can't give lessons when I have no boots to go out in?
Besides, I despise them."