"Real Druiysk people's food?" Arthur recalled the complaints he heard a few days ago while passing the market: "Earn five rubles a year, eat five cuffs a day?"
Arthur suddenly slammed the table, stood up, and pointed at the mayor's nose, furiously shouting: "You've got some nerve! Keeping me here for five days and nights, do you not care about the Third Bureau, the Imperial Office, or the Tsar's dignity? What do you take me for, a little clerk making quill pens at the ministry?"
The mayor's legs felt like they had been hit with a heavy hammer, instantly going weak. He barely had time to react before feeling his knees uncontrollably buckle, stumbling and nearly collapsing into a nearby chair.
