you are harsh," muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to write.

He looked a little ashamed.
"Write!" said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.
"Write what ?" the latter asked, gruffly.
"I will dictate to you." Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt completely indifferent to anyone's opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one instant.

If he had cared to think a little, he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them.

And where had those feelings come from?
Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart.

A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul.