impulsive joy.
Natásha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real ball was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink ribbons.
Natásha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom. She was not in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever person she happened to look at she was in love with for that moment.
“Oh, how delightful it is!” she kept saying, running up to Sónya.
Nikoláy and Denísov were walking up and down, looking with kindly patronage at the dancers.
“How sweet she is—she will be a weal beauty!” said Denísov.
“Who?”
“Countess Natásha,” answered Denísov.
“And how she dances! What gwace!” he said again after a pause.
“Who are you talking about?”
“About your sister,” ejaculated Denísov testily.
Rostóv smiled.
“My