“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!”
There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it. Another moment passed.
“Here’s the key.”
He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.
“Take it! Make haste!”