In Peter it is spring now - everything has dried up, the sun is shining, a light wind blows, and carries, carries, her mother at her feet in three saints and twelve apostles named, dust. A small, bad, instantly filling in the nose, whispering on the teeth, settling in the mouth and becoming a spice to any food, causing the eyes to tear, filling the damn dust on the shoes.

Never, you hear, never, even under the threat of the death penalty, never come to Orenburg in the summer.