
July in St Petersburg, and you play Rodion Raskolnikov, a student who has stopped attending, hiding in a garret from the landlady you owe. You count the seven hundred and thirty paces to a pawnbroker's door, hand over your father's silver watch, and learn her chain, her bolts, the keys under her apron, the interval between her steps. You call it a rehearsal. On the street afterwards a shabby clerk overhears what you said to yourself and starts telling you about his daughter.
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