The countess was lying in an armchair in a strange and awkward position, stretching out and beating her head against the wall. Sónya and the maids were holding her arms.
“Natásha! Natásha! …” cried the countess. “It’s not true … it’s not true … He’s lying … Natásha!” she shrieked, pushing those around her away. “Go away, all of you; it’s not true! Killed! … ha, ha, ha! … It’s not true!”
Natásha put one knee on the armchair, stooped over her mother, embraced her, and with unexpected strength raised her, turned her face toward herself, and clung to her.
“Mummy! … darling! … I am here, my dearest Mummy,” she kept on whispering, not pausing an instant.
She did not let go of her mother but struggled tenderly with her, demanded a pillow and hot water, and unfastened and tore open her mother’s dress.