hine through it..."

"I don't know.... Excuse me..." muttered the stranger, frightened by the
question and Raskolnikov's strange manner, and he crossed over to the
other side of the street.

Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay
Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but
they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round
and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a
corn chandler's shop.

"Isn't there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?"

"All sorts of people keep booths here," answered the young man, glancing
superciliously at Raskolnikov.

"What's his name?"

"What he was christened."

"Aren't you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?"

The young man looked at Raskolnikov again.

"It's not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously
forgive me, your excellency!"

"Is that a tavern at the top there?"

"Yes, it's an eating-house and there's a billiard-room and you'll find
princesses there too.... La-la!"

Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was a dense crowd
of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking
at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into
conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they
were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and
took a turning to the right in the direction of V.

He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading
from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn
to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might
feel more so.

Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great
block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating-houses;
women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their
indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement,
especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in
the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the
tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street.
A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the
steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken
soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road,
swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere,