She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps.

Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare.

And that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression.

She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov....

She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in.
She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing.