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"Well, now to the health of handsome women!" said Dolokhov, and with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre. "Here's to the health of lovely women, Peterkin and their lovers!" he added. Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at Dolokhov or answering him.

"I have no money with me," he said. "I'll trust you." Rostov staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again lost. Dolokhov "killed," that is, beat, ten cards of Rostov's running. "Gentlemen," said Dolokhov after he had dealt for some time. "Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the reckoning." One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted.

Dolokhov, running beside Timokhin, killed a Frenchman at close quarters and was the first to seize the surrendering French officer by his collar. Our fugitives returned, the battalions re-formed, and the French who had nearly cut our left flank in half were for the moment repulsed. Our reserve units were able to join up, and the fight was at an end.

He wanted to smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but could not move it. He smashed a pane. "You have a try, Hercules," said he, turning to Pierre. Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with a crash. "Take it right out, or they'll think I'm holding on," said Dolokhov. "Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?" said Anatole.

About ten o'clock Rostov went to the English Hotel straight from the theater, where he had been with his family and Denisov. He was at once shown to the best room, which Dolokhov had taken for that evening. Some twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dolokhov sat between two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he was keeping the bank.

In his large study, the walls of which were hung to the ceiling with Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat Dolokhov in a traveling cloak and high boots, at an open desk on which lay abacus and some bundles of paper money.

Yes, she loved him, or else how could that have happened which had happened? And how could she have a love letter from him in her hand? With trembling hands Natasha held that passionate love letter which Dolokhov had composed for Anatole, and as she read it she found in it an echo of all that she herself imagined she was feeling.

"You believe everything you're told. You were told..." Helene laughed, "that Dolokhov was my lover," she said in French with her coarse plainness of speech, uttering the word amant as casually as any other word, "and you believed it! Well, what have you proved? What does this duel prove? That you're a fool, que vous etes un sot, but everybody knew that. What will be the result?

Kutuzov noticed Pierre's figure and the group gathered round him. "Call him to me," said Kutuzov. An adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness' wish, and Pierre went toward Kutuzov's bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was Dolokhov. "How did that fellow get here?" asked Pierre. "He's a creature that wriggles in anywhere!" was the answer. "He has been degraded, you know.

What's he saying?" Dolokhov did not answer the captain; he had been drawn into a hot dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the campaign.