"But I seem to know the name.
Were there any in St.Petersburg ?" "The same people," answered Paul; "Count Stepan Lanovitch." Etta was looking at her husband with her bright smile.

It was a little too bright, perhaps.

Her eyes had a gleam in them.

She was conscious of being beautifully dressed, conscious of her own matchless beauty, almost dauntless, like a very strong man armed.
"Well, I think I am a model wife," she said: "to give in meekly to your tyranny; to go and bury myself in the heart of Russia in the middle of winter--By the way, we must buy some furs; that will be rather exciting.
But you must not expect me to be very intimate with your Russian friends.

I am not quite sure that I like Russians"-- she went toward him, laying her two hands gently on his broad breast and looking up at him--"not quite sure--especially Russian princes who bully their wives.
You may kiss me, however, but be very careful.