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"Are you raving, or what?" Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at

last. "What farce is this? You'll drive me crazy too... what did

you come to see me for, damn you?"

"I don't want... translation," muttered Raskolnikov from the

stairs.

"Then what the devil do you want?" shouted Razumihin from above.

Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.

"Hey, there! Where are you living?"

No answer.

"Well, confound you then!"

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the

Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by

an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or

three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip,

for having almost fallen under his horses' hoofs. The lash so

infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some

unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the

bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth.

He heard laughter, of course.

"Serves him right!"