“She’s dropped it!” said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart⁠—perhaps not only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which he could not himself have defined.

He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a sound.

“Let me go,” Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different.

“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.

“And⁠ ⁠… and you can’t? Never?” he whispered in despair.

“Never!”