friends."

"You think we may become friends?"

"And why not?" Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat.
"I didn't quite intend to disturb you and I came here without reckoning
on it... though I was very much struck by your face this morning."

"Where did you see me this morning?" Raskolnikov asked uneasily.

"I saw you by chance.... I kept fancying there is something about you
like me.... But don't be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on
all right with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great
personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about
Raphael's _Madonna_ in Madam Prilukov's album, and I never left Marfa
Petrovna's side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at
Viazemsky's house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in
a balloon with Berg, perhaps."

"Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?"

"What travels?"

"Why, on that 'journey'; you spoke of it yourself."

"A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that's a wide
subject.... if only you knew what you are asking," he added, and gave
a sudden, loud, short laugh. "Perhaps I'll get married instead of the
journey. They're making a match for me."