some reflection—as if considering in how far the thing was possible—replied in the affirmative.
“Oh yes, why not? They may,” he said.
With a slight inclination of her head, Natásha stepped back quickly to Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.
“They may. He says they may!” whispered Natásha.
The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostóvs’ yard, and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the houses in Povarskáya Street.
Natásha was evidently pleased to be dealing with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mávra Kuzmínichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their yard.
“Your Papa must be told, though,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna.
“Never mind, never mind, what