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Updated: June 7, 2025
He turned to the landlord, stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards. "Absurd isn't it? The f-fellow must be mad!" "Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who can't even keep time. You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so.
It is good to see the sun. Get in, Bradjaga, and if the burden in your arms is no corpse it will soon become one! The night has been hell. Bózhe moi! At the first crossing to the left is a tea-house Get along you brutes! Pour the vodka into his throat; it will sting him to life!" The ponies dashed forward, the mare and the foals running behind.
Kaya looked at him again and began to laugh softly: "I forgot about being a gypsey," she said, "Your clothes are ragged and torn, Velasco; they are worse than they were that night in your Studio. And I tell me how do I look?" "Like a little Bradjaga, sweet, and disreputable, and boyish!"
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