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Johnny Mac

Avatar: 37704 2015-08-12 18:57:31 -0400
35

[Full of SbumSS]

Level 35 Troll

I grant you an bumhole x

[http://www.example.com link title]

“First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend’s

mind at rest,” said he without altering his tone, beneath the

politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even

irony could be discerned.

Prince Vasili did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory

and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a

movement of the head that he was considering this information.

“Do you know,” he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad

current of his thoughts, “that Anatole is costing me forty thousand

rubles a year? And,” he went on after a pause, “what will it be in

five years, if he goes on like this?” Presently he added: “That’s what

we fathers have to put up with…. Is this princess of yours rich?”

“Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He

is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army

under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed ‘the King of Prussia.’ He is

very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very

unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise

Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutuzov’s and will be here

tonight.”

“Listen, dear Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking Anna

Pavlovna’s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. “Arrange

that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-

slafe with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports.

She is rich and of good family and that’s all I want.”

And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised

the maid of honor’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and

fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.

“Attendez,” said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, “I’ll speak to Lise,

young Bolkonski’s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can

be arranged. It shall be on your family’s behalf that I’ll start my

apprenticeship as old maid.”

Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest

Petersburg society was bumembled there: people differing widely in age

and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged.

Prince Vasili’s daughter, the beautiful Helene, came to take her

father to the ambbumador’s entertainment; she wore a ball dress and

her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess

Bolkonskaya, known as la femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg, was

also there. She had been married during the previous winter, and being

pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small

receptions. Prince Vasili’s son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart,

whom he introduced. The Abbe Morio and many others had also come.

To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, “You have not yet seen my

aunt,” or “You do not know my aunt?” and very gravely conducted him or

her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who

had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to

arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna

Pavlovna mentioned each one’s name and then left them.

Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom

not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of

them cared about; Anna Pavlovna observed these greetings with mournful

and solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of

them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health

of Her Majesty, “who, thank God, was better today.” And each

visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left

the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious

duty and did not return to her the whole evening.

The young Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work in a

gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a

delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her

teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming

when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always

the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect—the shortness

of her upper lip and her half-open mouth—seemed to be her own special

and peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of

this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life

and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull

dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her company

and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were

becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to her,

and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her

white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that

day.

Meanwhile, Bob was walking down the streets of busytown, thinking about the smell of his soapy fingers after washing his bum in the shower.

The little princess went round the table with quick, short,

swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her

dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was

doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around her. “I have brought

my work,” said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all

present. “Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick

on me,” she added, turning to her hostess. “You wrote that it was to

be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed.”

And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed,

dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.

“Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone

else,” replied Anna Pavlovna.

“How lovely!” said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted

his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something

extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also

with her unchanging smile.

“Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,” said he,

smilingly inclining his head.

The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and

considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the

story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful

round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her

still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond

necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and

whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at

once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor’s

face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.

The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Helene.

“Wait a moment, I’ll get my work…. Now then, what are you thinking

of?” she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. “Fetch me my workbag.”

There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking

merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in

her seat.

“Now I am all right,” she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she

took up her work.

Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle

and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.

Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary

resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that

in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features

were like his sister’s, but while in her case everything was lit up by

a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation,

and by the wonderful clbumic beauty of her figure, his face on the

contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of

sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes,

nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace,

and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions.

“It’s not going to be a ghost story?” said he, sitting down beside

the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this

instrument he could not begin to speak.

“Why no, my dear fellow,” said the astonished narrator, shrugging

his shoulders.

“Because I hate ghost stories,” said Prince Hippolyte in a tone

which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he

had uttered them.

He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be

sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was

dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of

cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.

The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then

current, to the effect that the Duc d’Enghien had gone secretly to

Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon

Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress’ favors, and that in

his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits

to which he was subject, and was thus at the duc’s mercy. The latter

spared him, and this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by

death.

The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point

where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies

looked agitated.

“Charming!” said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance at the

little princess.

“Charming!” whispered the little princess, sticking the needle

into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of

the story prevented her from going on with it.

The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully

prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a

watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he

was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbe, so she hurried to

the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe

about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by

the young man’s simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet

theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally,

which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved.

“The means are… the balance of power in Europe and the rights of

the people,” the abbe was saying. “It is only necessary for one

powerful nation like Russia—barbaric as she is said to be—to place

herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its

object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would

save the world!”

“But how are you to get that balance?” Pierre was beginning.

At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at

Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The

Italian’s face instantly changed and bumumed an offensively

affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing

with women.

“I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the

society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have

had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think

of the climate,” said he.

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