She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose.

Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it.

Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age.

The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant.

The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.
"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite.
"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face.
"And here...