She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby.

In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop.

Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl's hand.

She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder "Come on," and both moved on to the next shop.
"Do you like street music ?" said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him.

The man looked at him, startled and wondering.
"I love to hear singing to a street organ," said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject--"I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings--they must be damp--when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there's no wind--you know what I mean ?--and the street lamps shine through it..." "I don't know....