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I feel it, I know -there's a sausage in his right-hand coat pocket.
He's standing over me.
Oh, master! Look at me.
I'm dying.
I'm so wretched, I'll be your slave for ever! The dog crawled tearfully forward on his stomach.
Look what that cook did to me.
You'll never give me anything, though.
I know these rich people.
What good is it to you? What do you want with a bit of rotten old horsemeat? The Moscow State Food Store only sells muck like that.
But you've a good lunch under your belt, haven't you, you're a world-famous figure thanks to male sex glands.
Oowow-owow . . . What can I do? I'm too young to die yet and despair's a sin.
There's nothing for it, I shall have to lick his hand.
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