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I threw the weighty stack of pictures on the table, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes and recalled her last verbal outburst. What did she say? – An official with big ambitions and a small conscience? – A lunatic claiming to be the sun? – But it’s all “flowers” compared to my favorite: “A man with a microscopic ‘m.’” Not small, but microscopic, as if in all our lunar brood I were the smallest nothing.

I remember when I read this angry outburst, for the first time in my life I became interested in the author’s hand. Not literally, of course, but I had a real desire to get better acquainted with a woman bold enough not to be afraid to openly attack the future senator.

The election is less than a month away, but its outcome is obvious and logical.

Although, of course, this whole orphanage thing, if it is not covered quietly, can noticeably shake my foundation. It’s already pretty shaken up by the recent “yellow” scandal.

A knock on the door makes me avert my memories of the unforgettable sensations I received along with a portion of another angry outburst from Mrs. Sheremetieva. After a short “yes!” in reply, my assistant appears on the doorstep, once again reminding me that some moonshiners look suspiciously much like shadows: just as lanky, unshapely, pale, and barely alive. If I didn’t know the fellow so well, I would never have believed that such a small body could conceal such an iron grip and a calculating, cynical mind.