Sonia heard Raskolnikov's request distrustfully and moved hesitating to the table. She took the book however.
"Haven't you read it?" she asked, looking up at him across the table.
Her voice began sterner and sterner.
"Long ago. . . . When I was at school. Read!"
"And haven't you heard it in church?"
"I ... haven't been. Do you often go?"
"N-no," whispered Sonia.
Raskolnikov smiled.
"I understand. . . . And you won't go to your father's funeral to-morrow?"
"Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too. ... I had a requiem service."
"For whom?"
"For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe."
His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round.
"Were you friends with Lizaveta?"
"Yes. . . . She was good . . . she used to come . . . not often ... she couldn't. . . . We used to read together and . . . talk. She will see God."
The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them—religious maniacs.
"I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It's infectious!"
"Read!" he cried irritably and insistently.
Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the "unhappy lunatic."
"What for? You don't believe? . . ." she whispered softly and as it were breathlessly.
"Read! I want you to," he persisted. "You used to read to Lizaveta."
Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the first syllable.
"Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany . ." she forced herself at last to read, but at the third word
