“I know, I know!” Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. “So you are the fianc�? I know, and that’s enough!”

There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch’s being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment’s silence.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch’s whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of “fianc�” so