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Kondratyevna, the neighbour who used to come to Fyodor
Pavlovitch’s kitchen for soup and to whom Smerdyakov had
once sung his songs and played on the guitar, was now lodg-
ing. She had sold their little house, and was now living here
with her mother. Smerdyakov, who was ill — almost dying-
had been with them ever since Fyodor Pavlovitch’s death. It
was to him Ivan was going now, drawn by a sudden and ir-
resistible prompting.