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Sonya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with

bliss, looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for

which she longed. Sonya now was sixteen and she was very pretty,

especially at this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She

gazed at him, not taking her eyes off him, and smiling and

holding her breath. He gave her a grateful look, but was still

expectant and looking for someone. The old countess had not yet

come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps so rapid that

they could hardly be his mother's.

Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made

since he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her.

When they met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not

lift her face, but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his

hussar's jacket. Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by

anyone, stood there and wiped his eyes at the sight.