Shubinsky's mustache trembled violently, like the copper bell tongue of a church stirred by the north wind. He suddenly grabbed Arthur's arm with a force that creased the British gentleman's camel coat: "For the sake of Saint Michael, this is not a good place for a chat..."
After passing through three iron gates engraved with double-headed eagle reliefs, they finally arrived at the private domain of the Constitutional Soldier Colonel.
This office, known as the "Confession Room," was arranged in a way that was an extraordinary sight: beside the gilded Madonna hung a Tatar whip, and on the carved oak desk sat a Dresden porcelain plate piled high with coarse rye bread—said to be the "Holy Meal" for the involuntary visitors.
"You must understand, the interrogation committee is like the Malachite Hall of the Kremlin," Shubinsky said, using his boot tip to pull apart two copper-plated Gothic chairs: "Every feather wants to display, but someone will always have their eyes pecked out."
