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"Fine!" I answered. "Why don't we shoot? It makes more noise and frightens much more." "We used to do so," he said with regret, "but all these burjoois, and the popes, and the whole carrion of Tobolsk did not like it. So we have decided for the moment not to. Nobody can forbid singing. We are free. The air belongs to the Soviet Government."
Perhaps only one desire, to avenge myself and all of us. So I hesitated, for in Moscow they had been shooting right and left for the past week, persecuting the burjoois and officers. I had never felt so helpless and so unnecessary to myself and to others as on this snowy morning in Moscow.
"Hello," he said, "glad to know you're alive." "Yes," I answered, "I am about the only one whom they have not happened to exterminate, but it is coming"! Marchenko smiled. "You should not stay here for very long," he said, "It is getting dangerous and raids are being planned to finish with the burjoois who are hiding in the outskirts of Moscow."
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