Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever.
"I wanted to ask you," said Raskolnikov, hastily, "how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?"
"No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause of death . . . they did not worry us . . . only the lodgers are angry."
"Why?"
"At the body's remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it's necessary . . ."
"To-day, then?"
"She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch."
"She is giving a funeral lunch?"
"Yes . . . just a little. . . . She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral."
All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again.
During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl—almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd.
"But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch?" Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the conversation.
"The coffin will be plain, of course . . . and everything will be plain, so it won't cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough
