Good-bye, till we meet then--I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many kisses.
"Yours till death, "PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV." 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.