Chapter 46 No.46

Thus Zhilin and his comrade lived a whole month. Their master was always on the grin.

"You, Iván, good-me, Abdul, good."

But he gave them wretched food; unleavened bread made of millet-flour, cooked in the form of cakes, but often not heated through.

Kostuilin wrote home again, and was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the money, and lost