"Wostov, get up!" Rostov, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his disheveled head from the hot pillow.

"Why, is it late?" "Late! It's nearly ten o'clock," answered Natasha's voice.

A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of girls' voices came from the adjoining room.

The door was opened a crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair, and merry faces.