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"You are wounded?" he asked, hardly able to master the trembling

of his lower jaw.

"The wound is not here, it is there!" said Kutuzov, pressing the

handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing

soldiers. "Stop them!" he shouted, and at the same moment,

probably realizing that it was impossible to stop them, spurred

his horse and rode to the right.

A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with

it.