his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted
and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful
linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and
good-humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne
"What, you here?" he began in surprise, speaking as though he'd
known him all his life. "Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you
were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I've been to see you?"
Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers