He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his person. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people. Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society of every sort, more especially of late.
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