"The squadwon can't pass," shouted Vaska Denisov, showing his white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting white foam from his bit, tramping the planks of the bridge with his hoofs, and apparently ready to jump over the railings had his rider let him.
It was like he had a check list of what parents were supposed to do, and he filled in all the little blocks—middle-class home, straight teeth, and a college education—figured that was the extent of his obligations to us.
"Welcome to your new home, love," the Dark One said a moment before his teeth sank into her neck.
"No-o-o!" muttered Dolokhov through his teeth, "no, it's not over."
Well, I've had a bit of fun I can tell you! cried Denisov, gleeful and yet angry, his white teeth showing under his black mustache.