The 16-year-old tribe of Lecha is suffering a 2.5 year-old son. Having shaken the terrible rose and scattered the fingers, Loš shouts out the words of Barmalay: - And I don't need chocolate! Doing a step – not marmelade! One more step, but only the small ones. Yes! Very small ones! It’s terrible – kids!! to
The child who is stuck in the corner looks with open eyes and calmly and honestly explains:
and Yosa! I am Maymead!
Fortunate father son!