[ The earthquake sends a barefoot Raskolnikov stumbling outside, pulling on a robe as he trips through the door. He blinks in the morning sun, a hand raised to shield his eyes. The ground stops shaking as he comes to a halt on the front lawn, and he nearly sobs with relief.
And then there’s a voice from one of the neighboring houses, a shout and a swear, and Raskolnikov catches his breath as he turns. The speaker is a man wearing nightclothes, clearly disoriented. He’s a little familiar-looking, though Raskolnikov is sure they haven’t really met before, and certainly not one of the locals — the Sweetwater denizens don’t swear like that. The sentiment is certainly understandable, though Raskolnikov isn’t prone to such language. ]
I don’t know! [ He shakes his head violently, irritated with his own ignorance. ] We didn’t have these in Petersburg.
I
And then there’s a voice from one of the neighboring houses, a shout and a swear, and Raskolnikov catches his breath as he turns. The speaker is a man wearing nightclothes, clearly disoriented. He’s a little familiar-looking, though Raskolnikov is sure they haven’t really met before, and certainly not one of the locals — the Sweetwater denizens don’t swear like that. The sentiment is certainly understandable, though Raskolnikov isn’t prone to such language. ]
I don’t know! [ He shakes his head violently, irritated with his own ignorance. ] We didn’t have these in Petersburg.