“No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen at the door,” and Natásha ran across the drawing room to the dancing hall, where Denísov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord with his face in his hands.

He jumped up at the sound of her light step.

“Natáli,” he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, “decide my fate. It is in your hands.”

“Vasíli Dmítrich, I’m so sorry for you!⁠ ⁠… No, but you are so nice⁠ ⁠… but it won’t do⁠ ⁠… not that⁠ ⁠… but as a friend, I shall always love you.”

Denísov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they heard the quick rustle of the countess’ dress. She came up to them.