and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking as it were lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.
Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last to tremble with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter of her destinies.
"I am late. . . . It's eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting his eyes.
"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh yes, it is," she added, hastily, as though in that lay her means of escape. "My landlady's clock has just struck. . . . I heard it myself. . . ."
"I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although this was the first time. "I may perhaps not see you again . . ."
"Are you . . . going away?"
"I don't know . . . to-morrow. . . ."
"Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?" Sonia's voice shook.
"I don't know. I shall know to-morrow morning. . . . Never mind that: I've come to say one word. . . ."
He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.
"Why are you standing? Sit down," he said in a changed voice, gentle and friendly.
