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- George Herbert

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark;

White is their colour, and behold my head.

But must they have my brain? must they dispark

Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred?

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noun

A fight involving three or more individuals, teams, or factions; fought until one person, team, or faction is left standing.

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Chapter 180 of 365

5 min read

In the tavern, before which stood the doctor’s covered cart, there were already some five officers. Mary Hendríkhovna, a plump little blonde German, in a dressing jacket and nightcap, was sitting on a broad bench in the front corner. Her husband, the doctor, lay asleep behind her. Rostóv and Ilyín, on entering the room, were welcomed with merry shouts and laughter.

“Dear me, how jolly we are!” said Rostóv laughing.

“And why do you stand there gaping?”

“What swells they are! Why, the water streams from them! Don’t make our drawing room so wet.”

“Don’t mess Mary Hendríkhovna’s dress!” cried other voices.

Chapter 180

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