-Peter Talmarch-

“You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?”
“Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts?”
“What ghosts?”
“Why, ordinary ghosts.”
“Do you believe in them?”
“Perhaps not, pour vous plaire. … I wouldn’t say no exactly.”
“Do you see them, then?”
Svidrigaïlov looked at him rather oddly.
“Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,” he said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile.
“How do you mean ‘she is pleased to visit you’?”
“She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone.”
“Were you awake?”
“Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door—always at the door. I can almost hear her.”
“What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?” Raskolnikov said suddenly.
At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much excited.