As the door slowly opened, there stood commissar Zhukov, taking a brief look at the young lady through the dense cigar smoke and papers at his hand, reclining on his chair and telling to himself with his usual prejudice and dismay, a nippy Bretonian in a colorful dress, strange.
Stacy Winters, hmm? So, having decided that this is the right place for you, do you really believe that your future lies here? And if you do, tell me three good reasons for it, while I clean this thirty-eight.
And first of all, what made you knock the door three times instead of two?
Be precise as I have little time for Bretonian hippies.
