The emotion was so great that Razumov was glad to put his hands against
the wall. A diabolical impulse to say, "I have given you up to the
police," frightened him exceedingly. But he did not say that. He said,
without turning round, in a muffled voice--

"It's done."

Again he heard Haldin sigh. He walked to the table, sat down with the
lamp before him, and only then looked towards the bed.

In the distant corner of the large room far away from the lamp, which
was small and provided with a very thick china shade, Haldin appeared
like a dark and elongated shape--rigid with the immobility of death.
This body seemed to have less substance than its own phantom walked over
by Razumov in the street white with snow. It was more alarming in its
shadowy, persistent reality than the distinct but vanishing illusion.

Haldin was heard again.

"You must have had a walk--such a walk,..." he murmured
deprecatingly. "This weather...."

Razumov answered with energy--

"Horrible walk.... A nightmare of a walk."

He shuddered audibly. Haldin sighed once more, then--

"And so you have seen Ziemianitch--brother?"