Chapter 7

           Thesameday,aboutseveno’clockintheevening,Raskolnikovwasonhiswaytohismother’sandsister’slodging—thelodginginBakaleyev’shousewhichRazumihinhadfoundforthem.Thestairswentupfromthestreet.Raskolnikovwalkedwithlaggingsteps,asthoughstillhesitatingwhethertogoornot.Butnothingwouldhaveturnedhimback:hisdecisionwastaken.

           “Besides,itdoesn’tmatter,theystillknownothing,”hethought,“andtheyareusedtothinkingofmeaseccentric.”

           Hewasappallinglydressed:hisclothestornanddirty,soakedwithanight’srain.Hisfacewasalmostdistortedfromfatigue,exposure,theinwardconflictthathadlastedfortwenty-fourhours.Hehadspentallthepreviousnightalone,Godknowswhere.Butanywayhehadreachedadecision.

           Heknockedatthedoorwhichwasopenedbyhismother.Douniawasnotathome.Eventheservanthappenedtobeout.AtfirstPulcheriaAlexandrovnawasspeechlesswithjoyandsurprise;thenshetookhimbythehandanddrewhimintotheroom.

           “Hereyouare!”shebegan,falteringwithjoy.“Don’tbeangrywithme,Rodya,forwelcomingyousofoolishlywithtears:Iamlaughingnotcrying.DidyouthinkIwascrying?No,Iamdelighted,butI’vegotintosuchastupidhabitofsheddingtears.I’vebeenlikethateversinceyourfather’sdeath.Icryforanything.Sitdown,dearboy,youmustbetired;Iseeyouare.Ah,howmuddyyouare.”

           “Iwasintherainyesterday,mother....”Raskolnikovbegan.