He turned to her and looked very intently at her.
“Guess,” he said, with the same distorted helpless smile.
A shudder passed over her.
“But you … why do you frighten me like this?” she said, smiling like a child.
“I must be a great friend of his … since I know,” Raskolnikov went on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes away. “He … did not mean to kill that Lizaveta … he … killed her accidentally. … He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he went there … and then Lizaveta came in … he killed her too.”
Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another.
“You can’t guess, then?” he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were flinging himself down from a steeple.
“N-no …” whispered Sonia.
“Take a good look.”
As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the face of Lizaveta. He remembered clearly the expression in Lizaveta’s face, when he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking as little children do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands on the point of crying. Almost the same thing happened now to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at him for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and slowly began to get up