out on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute
angle, and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light.
The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any
furniture in the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead,
beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a
blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other
flat. Two rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite
wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers
looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the
room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the
corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There
was every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.

Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and
unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last to tremble
with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter
of her destinies.

"I am late.... It's eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting his
eyes.

"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh yes, it is," she added, hastily, as though in
that lay her means of escape. "My landlady's clock has just struck... I
heard it myself...."

"I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily,
although this was the first time. "I may perhaps not see you again..."

"Are you... going away?"