Dolohov lay in the sledge with closed eyes, in silence, and uttered not a word in reply to questions addressed to him. But as they were driving into Moscow, he suddenly came to himself, and lifting his head with an effort, he took the hand of Rostov, who was sitting near him. Rostov was struck by the utterly transformed and unexpectedly passionately tender expression on Dolohov’s face.

“Well? How do you feel?” asked Rostov.

“Bad! but that’s not the point. My friend,” said Dolohov, in a breaking voice, “where are we? We are in Moscow, I know. I don’t matter, but I have killed her, killed her.…She won’t get over this. She can’t bear…”

“Who?” asked Rostov.

“My mother. My mother, my angel, my adored angel, my mother,” and squeezing Rostov’s hand, Dolohov burst into tears. When he was a little calmer, he explained to Rostov that he was living with his mother, that if his mother were to see him dying, she would not get over the shock. He besought Rostov to go to her and prepare her.

Rostov drove on ahead to carry out his wish, and to his immense astonishment he learned that Dolohov, this bully, this noted duellist Dolohov, lived at Moscow with his old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the tenderest son and brother.