He had decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand.

He had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and Sonya's joint ages.

Rostov, leaning his head on both hands, sat at the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine, and littered with cards.

One tormenting impression did not leave him: that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him in their power.