But what if I don't get well at all?
Good God, how sick I am of it all!" He walked on without resting.

He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt.

A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred.
All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures.

If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him....
He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov.

"Why, he lives here, in that house," he thought, "why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it's the same thing over again....