Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his fluttering dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed on Rostopchin, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him to stop.
One part of her mind was whispering for her to push him away, but the other side was shouting that it didn't matter.
Her voice rose until she was shouting at him, and any control she had over herself slid away.
Inside of the great kitchen, beside the fire, the men were shouting and laughing; for the blacksmith had finished his song, and it was very pleasing.
I couldn't help laughing, for at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of her voice: