3. CHAPTER III
"Yours till death,
Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov's face
was wet with tears; but when he finished it, his face was pale and
distorted and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile was on his lips.
He laid his head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered,
pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently, and his brain
was in a turmoil. At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little
yellow room that was like a cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind
craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this time without
dread of meeting anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He turned in the
direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky
Prospect, as though hastening on some business, but he walked, as his
habit was, without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud
to himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by. Many of them took
him to be drunk.