He felt as though he had been stripped, stripped entirely,--as if not only his clothes, but the sun, the air, the noise of voices and his ability to do things had been wrested from him.

Death was not there as yet, but life was there no longer,--there was something new, something astonishing, inexplicable, not entirely reasonable and yet not altogether without meaning,--something so deep and mysterious and supernatural that it was impossible to understand.
"Fie, you devil!" wondered Sergey, painfully.

"What is this?
Where am I?
I--who am I ?" He examined himself attentively, with interest, beginning with his large prison slippers, ending with his stomach where his coat protruded.

He paced the cell, spreading out his arms and continuing to survey himself like a woman in a new dress which is too long for her.

He tried to turn his head, and it turned.