" Or is it yours?" he said, addressing the black-mustached Denisov with servile deference.

Rostov hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing gown, and went out.

Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting her foot into the other.

Sonya, when he came in, was twirling round and was about to expand her dresses into a balloon and sit down.