“Yes, it really is Bezúkhov in a coachman’s coat, with a queer-looking old boy. Really,” said Natásha, “look, look!”

“No, it’s not he. How can you talk such nonsense?”

“Mamma,” screamed Natásha, “I’ll stake my head it’s he! I assure you! Stop, stop!” she cried to the coachman.

But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meshchánski Street came more carts and carriages, and the Rostóvs were being shouted at to move on and not block the way.