Raskolnikov does not consider himself to be a man prone to hysteria. He is logical, intelligent, rational; certainly not the sort of person who loses their wits when faced with an unknown situation. But the stress of the alarm and subsequent rush to this basement had put him him on edge, and he’d found himself pacing back in forth with his hands jammed in his pockets.

The minutes drag by, and he grows increasingly impatient, until he storms over to the nearest person. This happens to be a tall, blond man leaning against the wall who at least looks like he knows what’s going on. Well, that makes one of them.

In quick, sharp Russian — he doesn’t know how it is these Americans understand him or how he understands them, but inquiring about it had quickly proven to be quite useless — he asks, “how long does this last?”