Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement turned gradually to horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learned, he had suddenly and quite unexpectedly learned, that the next day at seven o’clock Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven o’clock precisely the old woman would be left alone.
“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the officer, “but there it is, it’s nature.”
He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to not get smeared with the streaming blood)—the same right hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were still trembling.”
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