“I don’t know myself,” Natásha answered quickly, “but I should not like to do anything you disapproved of. I believe in you completely. You don’t know how important you are to me, how much you’ve done for me.⁠ ⁠…” She spoke rapidly and did not notice how Pierre flushed at her words. “I saw in that same army order that he , Bolkónski” (she whispered the name hastily), “is in Russia, and in the army again. What do you think?”⁠—she was speaking hurriedly, evidently afraid her strength might fail her⁠—“Will he ever forgive me? Will he not always have a bitter feeling toward me? What do you think? What do you think?”

“I think⁠ ⁠…” Pierre replied, “that he has nothing to forgive.⁠ ⁠… If I were in his place⁠ ⁠…”

By association of ideas, Pierre was at once carried back to the day when, trying to comfort her, he had said that if he were not himself but the best man in the world and free, he would ask on his knees for her hand; and the same feeling of pity, tenderness, and love took possession of him and the same words rose to his lips. But she did not give him time to say them.