Konstantin Levin did not like talking and hearing about the beauty of nature.

Words for him took away the beauty of what he saw.

He assented to what his brother said, but he could not help beginning to think of other things.

When they came out of the woods, all his attention was engrossed by the view of the fallow land on the upland, in parts yellow with grass, in parts trampled and checkered with furrows, in parts dotted with ridges of dung, and in parts even ploughed.

A string of carts was moving across it.