When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table.

Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper.

He looked gloomily in Rostov's face and said: "I am witing to her.

" He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Rostov the contents of his letter.

"You see, my fwiend," he said, "we sleep when we don't love.