Rostóv, who had completely forgotten Denísov, not wishing anyone to forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the drawing room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more kissing, more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was Papa, which Natásha, and which Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed that.

“And I did not know⁠ ⁠… Nikolúshka⁠ ⁠… My darling!⁠ ⁠…”

“Here he is⁠ ⁠… our own⁠ ⁠… Kólya, 43 dear fellow⁠ ⁠… How he has changed!⁠ ⁠… Where are the candles?⁠ ⁠… Tea!⁠ ⁠…”

“And me, kiss me!”