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When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a

chair, supported by someone on the right side, while someone else

was standing on the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with

yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch standing before him, looking

intently at him. He got up from the chair.

"What's this? Are you ill?" Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather

sharply.

"He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing," said the head

clerk, settling back in his place, and taking up his work again.

"Have you been ill long?" cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place,

where he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course,

come to look at the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once

when he recovered.

"Since yesterday," muttered Raskolnikov in reply.

"Did you go out yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Though you were ill?"

"Yes."

"At what time?"

"About seven."

"And where did you go, may I ask?"

"Along the street."

"Short and clear."