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On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and

sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he

had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up.

He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about

anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former

fever and shivering, and he realised with relief that he could

lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as

it were crushing him.

He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming.

Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o'clock the next morning,

had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread.

The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot.

"My goodness, how he sleeps!" she cried indignantly. "And he is

always asleep."

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a

turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again.

"Going to sleep again," cried Nastasya. "Are you ill, eh?"

He made no reply.