Pierreclutchedhistemples, andturningroundwentintotheforest, tramplingthroughthedeepsnow, andmutteringincoherentwords:
"Folly...folly! Death...lies..." herepeated, puckeringhisface.
Nesvitskistoppedhimandtookhimhome.
RostovandDenisovdroveawaywiththewoundedDolokhov.
, liftinghisheadwithaneffort, tookRostov, whowassittingbesidehim, 'sface.
"Well? Howdoyoufeel?" heasked.
"Bad! Butit'snotthat, myfriend-" saidDolokhovwithagaspingvoice."Wherearewe? InMoscow, 'tmatter, butIhavekilledher, killed...Shewon'tgetoverit! Shewon'tsurvive...."
"Who?" askedRostov.
"Mymother! Mymother, myangel, myadoredangelmother," andDolokhovpressedRostov'shandandburstintotears.
Whenhehadbecomealittlequieter, heexplainedtoRostovthathewaslivingwithhismother, who, ifshesawhimdying, .
Rostovwentonaheadtodowhatwasasked, andtohisgreatsurpriselearnedthatDolokhovthebrawler, Dolokhovthebully, livedinMoscowwithanoldmotherandahunchbacksister, andwasthemostaffectionateofsonsandbrothers.
