He was the handsomest of them all.
Natasha bent down, very low over the book.

At times she tossed back the thin curls that kept running down over her forehead, and lowered her voice to say something not in the book, with a kind look at the faces of her auditors.

The Little Russian bent his broad chest over a corner of the table, and squinted his eyes in the effort to see the worn ends of his mustache, which he constantly twirled.

Vyesovshchikov sat on his chair straight as a pole, his palms resting on his knees, and his pockmarked face, browless and thin-lipped, immobile as a mask.
He kept his narrow-eyed gaze stubbornly fixed upon the reflection of his face in the glittering brass of the samovar.

He seemed not even to breathe.