The table was set as it had not been for a long time.

The cloth was clean.
"It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer.

We could empty them." "Well, you are a cool hand," muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention.

Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov's head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him.

But the soup was only just warm.