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"What's the matter with you?" cried Razumihin.

"So that's how it is?" Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. "Let

me tell you, sir," he began deliberately, doing his utmost to

restrain himself but breathing hard, "at the first moment I saw

you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose

to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and

a connection, but you... never after this..."

"I am not ill," cried Raskolnikov.

"So much the worse..."

"Go to hell!"

But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech,

squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this

time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even

nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to

him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to

the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to

go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was

expressive of the horrible insult he had received.