Marya Dmitrievna always spoke in Russian.
"Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her children," she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all others.

"Well, you old sinner," she went on, turning to the count who was kissing her hand, "you're feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay?
Nowhere to hunt with your dogs?
But what is to be done, old man?
Just see how these nestlings are growing up," and she pointed to the girls.

"You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not...." "Well," said she, "how's my Cossack ?" (Marya Dmitrievna always called Natasha a Cossack) and she stroked the child's arm as she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand.

"I know she's a scamp of a girl, but I like her." She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and, having given them to the rosy Natasha, who beamed with the pleasure of her saint's-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to Pierre.
"Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit," said she, assuming a soft high tone of voice.

"Come here, my friend..." and she ominously tucked up her sleeves still higher.