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They're a lot of bastards, those Frenchmen, if you ask me - though they know how to stuff their guts all right, and red wine with everything.
Well, along comes this little typist and wants a meal.
She can't afford to go into the restaurant on 60 roubles a month and go to the cinema as well.
And the cinema is a woman's one consolation in life.
It's agony for her to have to choose a meal . . . just think:40 kopecks for two courses, and neither of them is worth more than 15 because the manager has pocketed the other 25 kopecks-worth.
Anyhow, is it the right sort of food for her? She's got a patch on the top of her right lung, she's having her period, she's had her pay docked at work and they feed her with any old muck at the canteen, poor girl . . . There she goes now, running into the doorway in her lover's stockings.
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