“I should wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there,” thought Rostóv. “In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness; but here … groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry … There—they are shouting again, and again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above me and around … Another instant and I shall never again see the sun, this water, that gorge! …”
