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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov's entrance. Both
rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable
sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms
to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him
in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step,
tottered and fell to the ground, fainting.
Anxiety, cries of horror, moans... Razumihin who was standing in
the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong
arms and in a moment had him on the sofa.
"It's nothing, nothing!" he cried to the mother and sister--"it's
only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was
much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming
to himself, he is all right again!"

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