"Of course not. I only pointed out the inequality of things. As for the deed—"
"Well, if you won't, it's my opinion that it would not be just to do so! Come, let's have another game!"
Raskolnikoff was in the greatest agitation. Still, there was nothing extraordinary in this conversation; it was not the first time he had heard, only in other forms and on other topics, such ideas from the lips of the young and hotheaded. But why should he, of all men, happen to overhear such a conversation and such ideas, when the very same thoughts were being engendered in himself?—and why precisely THEN, immediately on his becoming possessed of them and on leaving the old woman? Strange, indeed, did this coincidence appear to him. This idle conversation was destined to have a fearful influence on his destiny, extending to the most trifling incident and causing him to feel sure he was the instrument of a fixed purpose.
On his return from the market, he flung himself upon his couch and sat motionless for a whole hour. It became dark, he had no light, but sat on. He could never afterwards recollect his thoughts at the time. At last he felt cold, and a shiver ran through him. He recognized with delight that he was sitting on his couch and could lie down, and soon he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. He slept much longer than usual, and his slumbers were undisturbed by dreams. Nastasia, who came to his room the next morning at ten o'clock, had great difficulty in awakening him. The servant brought him some bread and, the same as the day before, what was left of her tea.
"Not up yet!" exclaimed she indignantly. "How can you sleep so long?"
Raskolnikoff raised himself with an effort; his head ached; he got upon his feet, took a few steps, and then dropped down again upon the couch.
"What, again!" cried Nastasia, "but you must be ill then?" He did not answer. "Would you like some tea?"
"By and by," he muttered painfully, after which he closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. Nastasia, standing over him, remained watching him for a while.
"After all, he's perhaps ill," said she, before withdrawing. At two o'clock she returned with some soup. Raskolnikoff was still lying on the couch. He had not touched the tea. The servant became angry and shook the lodger violently. "Whatever makes you sleep thus?" scolded she, eyeing him contemptuously.
He sat up, but answered not a word, and remained with his eyes fixed on the floor.