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"Don't be angry, brother; I've only come for one minute," said Dounia. Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him with love. "Brother, now I know all, all. Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and told me everything.
She seemed not to understand what she was doing and what was going on. "Well, you missed! Fire again, I'll wait," said Svidrigailov 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."
The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the wish. "It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money," he thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov's room, "and why on earth was I such a Jew?
To begin with, this would transform everything, even his own position; he would have at once to confess his secret to Dounia. Would he have to give himself up perhaps to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dounia had received a letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps?
Love Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and understand that she loves you beyond everything, more than herself. She is an angel and you, Rodya, you are everything to us our one hope, our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do you still say your prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our Creator and our Redeemer?
When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him. He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before and was struck with dismay.
Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow's foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point.
He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her glance. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed. "Nothing would induce me to go," she whispered in despair to Razumihin. "I will stay somewhere here... escort Dounia home."
"But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. "Did he tell you?" "Yes." "What was it?" "I'll tell you afterwards." Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea. Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch.
At last the moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the separation should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same.
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