“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no justice about it.... Let us have another game.” Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just conceiving... the very same ideas? And why, just at the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint.... On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing him. He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morning, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot. “My goodness, how he sleeps!” she cried indignantly. “And he is always asleep.” He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again. “Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?” He made no reply. “Do you want some tea?” “Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall. Nastasya stood over him. “Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out. She came in again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing him. “Why are you lying like a log?” she shouted, looking at him with repulsion.