Every muscle of Telyánin’s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising to Rostóv’s face, and his sobs were audible.

“Count!⁠ ⁠… Don’t ruin a young fellow⁠ ⁠… here is this wretched money, take it⁠ ⁠…” He threw it on the table. “I have an old father and mother!⁠ ⁠…”

Rostóv took the money, avoiding Telyánin’s eyes, and went out of the room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced his steps. “O God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?”

“Count⁠ ⁠…” said Telyánin drawing nearer to him.

“Don’t touch me,” said Rostóv, drawing back. “If you need it, take the money,” and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.

That same evening there was an animated discussion among the squadron’s officers in Denísov’s quarters.