“Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,” said Svidrigaïlov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize you before you cock again.”

Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.

“Let me be,” she cried in despair. “I swear I’ll shoot again. I⁠ ⁠… I’ll kill you.”

“Well⁠ ⁠… at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don’t⁠ ⁠… then.” His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot again: it missed fire.

“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge there. Get it ready, I’ll wait.”

He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia saw that he would sooner die than let her go. “And⁠ ⁠… now, of course she would kill him, at two paces!” Suddenly she flung away the revolver.