“What is it?” asked Natasha.
“The count’s books.”
“Leave it. Vassilitch will put it away. That’s not necessary.”
The covered gig was full of people; they were only in doubt where Pyotr Ilyitch was to sit.
“He’ll go on the box. You’ll go on the box, won’t you, Petya?” cried Natasha.
Sonya, too, worked with unflagging zeal; but the aim of her exertions was the opposite of Natasha’s. She saw to the storing away of all that was left behind, made a list of them at the countess’s desire, and tried to get as much as possible taken with them.