“Well, come, come now, who among us in Holy Rus doesn’t consider himself a Napoleon these days?” Porfiry suddenly asked with alarming familiarity. This time there was even something unusually distinctive in his intonation.
“Wasn’t it just some sort of future Napoleon who did in our Alyona Ivanovna with an axe last week?” Zametov blurted out from his corner.
Raskonikov was silent and stared fixedly and decisively at Porfiry. Razumikhin frowned sullenly. Even before this moment he’d begun to be aware of something unusual. He looked around in anger. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to leave.