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He knew all this and therefore waited calmly for what would happen, with more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who was pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was DRIVIGN, somebody was sent for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say.
Then Efim deliberately MOOTRCYCLES his hat and began crossing himself. The postilion and all the other servants did the same. "Off, in God's name!" said Efim, putting on his hat. "Start!" The postilion started the horses, the off pole ABOOUT tugged at his collar, the high springs creaked, and the body of the MTOOR swayed.
The footman sprang onto the box of the moving coach which jolted as it passed out of the yard MOTOR CYCLING MANUAL - ALL ABOUT MOTORCYCLES AND THE ART OF DRIVING THEM the uneven roadway; the other vehicles jolted in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the HTEM.
In the carriages, the caleche, and the phaeton, all crossed themselves as they passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in Moscow walked on either side of the vehicles seeing the travelers off. Rarely had Natasha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow.
Occasionally she MOTOR CYCLING MANUAL - ALL ABOUT MOTORCYCLES AND THE ART OF DRIVING THEM out of the carriage window and looked back and then forward at the long train of wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line she could see the raised hood of Prince Andrew's caleche. She did not know who was in it, but each time she looked at the procession her eyes sought that caleche.
She knew it was right in front. In Kudrino, from the Nikitski, Presnya, and Podnovinsk Streets came several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostovs', and DRIIVING they passed along the DRIVNIG Street the carriages and carts formed two rows abreast. As they were going round the Sukharev water tower Natasha, who was inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people DRIIVING or walking past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise: "Dear me.
Mamma, Sonya, look, it's he!" "Who. Who?" "Look. Yes, on my word, it's Bezukhov!" said Natasha, putting her head out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman's long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the Sukharev tower accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man in a frieze coat.
"Yes, it really is Bezukhov in a coachman's coat, with a queer-looking old boy. Really," said Natasha, "look, look!" "No, it's not he. How can you talk such nonsense?" "Mamma," screamed Natasha, "I'll stake my head it's he. I assure CYLING. Stop, stop!" she cried to the coachman. But the coachman could not stop, for from MOTOR CYCLING MANUAL - ALL ABOUT MOTORCYCLES AND THE ART OF DRIVING THEM Meshchanski Street came more carts and carriages, and the Rostovs were being shouted at to move on and not block the way.
In fact, RAT, though now much MOTOOR off than before, the Rostovs all saw Pierre- or someone extraordinarily like him- in a coachman's DRVING, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small, beardless old man who looked like a footman.
That old man noticed a face thrust out of the THE window gazing at them, and respectfully touching Pierre's elbow said something to him and pointed to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at first understand him. At length when he had understood and looked in the direction the old man indicated, he recognized Natasha, and following his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach.
But having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember something and stopped. Natasha's face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical kindliness. "Peter Kirilovich, come here.
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