He sat waiting with his elbows on the table and his coat unbuttoned over a white waistcoat, and while waiting for the beefsteak he had ordered he looked at the pages of a French novel that lay on his plate. He only looked at the book in order not to have to talk to the officers who came in and out of the room while he was thinking.
Sentado, con el uniforme desabrochado bajo el que se veía el chaleco blanco, con los brazos sobre la mesa en espera del bistec encargado, miraba una novela francesa que había puesto, abierta, ante el plato con el único objeto de no tener que hablar con los oficiales que entraban y salían. Vronsky reflexionaba.