Saying this he again turned round,
dropped his hands,
took the bottle and lifted it to his lips,
threw back his head, and raised
his free hand to balance himself.
One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up
some broken glass remained in that position without
taking his eyes
from the window and from Dolokhov's back.
Anatole stood erect with staring eyes.
The Englishman looked on sideways,
pursing up his lips.
The man who had wished to stop the affair ran
to a corner of the room and threw himself
on a sofa with his face to the wall.
Pierre hid his face,
from which a faint smile forgot to fade
though his features now expressed horror and fear.
All were still.
Pierre took his hands from his eyes.
Dolokhov still sat in the same position,
only his head was thrown further
back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar,
and the hand holding the bottle was lifted
higher and higher and trembled with the effort.
The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising
still higher and his head tilting yet further back.
"Why is it so long?" thought Pierre.
It seemed to him that more than
half an hour had elapsed.
Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward movement
with his spine, and his arm trembled nervously;
this was sufficient to cause his whole body
to slip as he sat on the sloping ledge.
As he began slipping down, his head and arm wavered
still more with the strain.
One hand moved as if to clutch the window sill,
but refrained from touching it.
Pierre again covered his eyes and thought
he would never never them again.
Suddenly he was aware of a stir all around.
He looked up: Dolokhov was standing on
the window sill, with a pale but radiant face.