The Darkness of a Flat

Raskolnikov went to the flat of an old woman. She was a withered up 60-year-old with sharp, malignant eyes and a sharp, litle nose. Her colourless hair was thickly smeared with oil; she wore no kerchief over it. The young man stepped into the dark entry which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something - but he could not help asking himself: What would it be if i were really going to do it?

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