![]() ![]() "On you go," said the more thuggish of the two, his hand on the butt of his rifle. Though strapping lads, both of the soldiers had to look up from under their caps to return the Count's gaze – for like ten generations of Rostov men, the Count stood an easy six foot three. I shall no longer be in need of your assistance." "Thank you, gentlemen, for delivering me safely. When he reached the threshold, the Count gave a wink to Pavel, the afternoon doorman, and turned with a hand outstretched to the two soldiers trailing behind him. Passing through Resurrection Gate, he turned his back on the lilacs of the Alexander Gardens and proceeded toward Theatre Square, where the Hotel Metropol stood in all its glory. Giving the startled fruit seller no time to reply, the Count walked briskly on, his waxed moustaches spread like the wings of a gull. "I see the blackberries have come in early this year!" "Hello, my good man," the Count called to Fyodor, at the edge of the square. Even the Bolshevik girls conversing before the windows of the State Department Store seemed dressed to celebrate the last days of spring. Their pinks, greens, and golds shimmered as if it were the sole purpose of a religion to cheer its Divinity. ![]() The sky was the very blue that the cupolas of St. Drawing his shoulders back without breaking stride, the Count inhaled the air like one fresh from a swim. ![]() At half past six on the twenty-first of June 1922, when Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov was escorted through the gates of the Kremlin onto Red Square, it was glorious and cool. ![]()
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