In the small room which Nekhlyúdov occupied, stood an old leather divan studded with brass nails, several chairs of the same description, an open antiquated cardtable, with incrustations, indentations, and a brass rim, on which lay papers, and an antiquated, yellow, open English grand, with worn, narrow keys. Between the windows hung a large mirror in an old gilt carved frame. On the floor, near the table, lay stacks of papers, books, and accounts. The room bore altogether a disorderly aspect, and was devoid of character; and this living disorder formed a sharp contrast to the affected, old-fashioned, aristocratic arrangement of the other rooms of the large house.
Upon entering the room Nekhlyúdov angrily threw his hat upon the table, and sat down on a chair which stood in front of the grand, and crossed his legs and dropped his head.
"Well, will you have your breakfast, your Grace?" said, upon entering the room, a tall, haggard, wrinkled old woman, in cap, large kerchief, and chintz dress.
Nekhlyúdov turned around to take a look at her, and kept silent for awhile, as though considering something.
"No, I do not care to, nurse," he said, and again became pensive.
The nurse angrily shook her head at him, and sighed.
"Oh, Dmitri Nikoláevich, why do you look so sad? There are greater sorrows, and they pass, — really they do —"