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"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man,

glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov.

"What's his name?"

"What he was christened."

"Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"

The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously

forgive me, your excellency!"

"Is that a tavern at the top there?"

"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll

find princesses there too.... La-la!"

Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense

crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of

it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to

enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no

notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He

stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the

direction of V.