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"He is himself," echoed the man.

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady

closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded

conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at

all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows,

good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.

"Who... are you?" he went on, addressing the man. But at that

moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was

so tall, Razumihin came in.

"What a cabin it is!" he cried. "I am always knocking my head.

You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I've just

heard the news from Pashenka."

"He has just come to," said Nastasya.

"Just come to," echoed the man again, with a smile.

"And who are you?" Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. "My

name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am

always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is

my friend. And who are you?"