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Raskolnikov walked straight to X---- Bridge, stood in the middle,

and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On

parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could

scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere

in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at

the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing

dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on

the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the

setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water

seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before

his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal

banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he

started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and

hideous sight.