“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Razumihin could not sit still on his chair. “Aren’t you ashamed now, sister?” asked Raskolnikov. “I am ashamed, Rodya,” said Dounia. “Pyotr Petrovitch, go away,” she turned to him, white with anger. Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered.
