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"It is as though they were afraid of me," Raskolnikov was

thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer

she kept silent.

"Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed

through his mind.

"Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria

Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.

"What Marfa Petrovna?"

"Oh, mercy on us--Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote you so

much about her."

"A-a-h! Yes, I remember.... So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused

himself suddenly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?"

"Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered

hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. "On the very day I was

sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man

seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her

dreadfully."

"Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing his

sister.