hunting [Theme] Page 1

Because I have already said so much. [shows two severed fingers on his left hand.]

“Often,” he replied.

Most men like quick wins, they are not interested in a long hunt.

But who wants to think about the consequences? After all, it's boring.

Hunting is not as dangerous as sharing the skin.

Reserves save not only animals, but also poachers from extinction.

Everyone laughed, except for D'Arnot. He alone knew how logical and serious this reason was in the mouth of the ape-man.

You want to find an excuse to hunt. But you were mistaken in mistaking a predator for prey.

We (the artists) had a hunt for ... this striving for truth, for truth at all costs, for this youthful enthusiasm for truth: we are too experienced, too serious, too cheerful, too deep, too burned ...

Hunting for Jews has always been a European sport. Now the Palestinians who have never played are paying the bill.

- ... Apparently he was left on the stirrup while the two accomplices continued their search. I didn't know what to do next," Jamie said, rubbing his nose, "of course, I was safe in the shop, but I could not get out of there, I would immediately be noticed.
He turned around nervously, smoothing the scarlet fabric of the kielta on his knees.
- So what did you do? I asked.
"I bought a sausage," he simply replied.
More precisely, it was Dundin. This delicacy was prepared from duck meat with the addition of ham and lenison, all this was boiled, stuffed into the intestine and dried in the sun. The result was a sausage eighteen inches long, hard, like oak wood.
"I couldn't come out with a naked sword," Jamie continued. - On the other hand, I didn't want to pass by that guy in the proulka without weapons either.
***
"I definitely broke his nose," he said thoughtfully. - Anyway, this scoundrel recoiled, I slipped past him and started running down Pelletier Street.
Passers-by with screams ran away, just a flock of frightened geese: the sight of a huge Scotsman rushing down the street in a fluttering kilt could frighten anyone. Jamie didn't stop or wrap himself up - it was clear from the indignant screams coming from behind that the pursuers were still chasing him.
The Royal Guards rarely patrolled the streets of the area, and there was no need to wait for help from others, except that the hustle and bustle on the street could slightly delay the pursuers. Who wants to interfere in street showdowns, especially for the sake of some foreigner.
"The street there is straight, without any branches," Jamie said. - And I certainly needed to run to the place where you could bare the sword and press your back against the wall. On the run, I pushed the locked doors. Finally lucky - one was open.
Breaking into the semi-dark hallway, Jamie raced past the bewilded porter, then, throwing back the curtain, was in the center of a large, well-lit hall. It was the salon of the notorious Madame Eliza, he realized this when the tickling smell of perfume hit his nostrils.
"I understand," I said and bit my lip. - I hope you didn't have to pull out the sword there?
Jamie squinted slightly and replied evasively:
- I guess, Englishwoman, you have a strong imagination to imagine the effect of my sudden appearance in a brothel, and even with a huge sausage in hand.
Imagination did not fail, I laughed.

A hangover in all its glory: a crushing headache, a taste of cement in the mouth, nausea, aching joints, lethargy ... A ritual scene, after which he habitually swore to himself that he would no longer take alcohol in his mouth. He swore, knowing that the determination would not last long: already at noon there would again be a desire to wet the throat, well, there ...

This joy about the failures of Russia and the frivolous squeal of delight that Russia was suddenly "weak, without finances, with a frustrated army, with a disgruntled and grumbling people, with nihilism that undermined society" - all these fables are undoubtedly carried a seal of such a well-known origin. Oh, it is impossible that Russian pens were not found, ready to write in unison with the clerics, but these correspondences abroad, it seems, cannot be written by the Russians: it would be too vile. Nevertheless, the clerics, perhaps not trying very hard, undoubtedly even direct the Russian feathers in our home. They may not even persuade them at all, and they do not enter into relations with them, direct and proper, because these lively liberal feathers sometimes belong to the most honest people who, having listened to a direct proposal from the cleric, perhaps would have let him down even with stairs. But on the other hand, a cleric, especially one who has settled down with us, knows perfectly well that he does not even need to go to a brisk pen, because a brisk Russian pen will write everything for him for nothing - only imagining (oh, dear ones!) That this is both honest and liberal ... A lively pen is outraged, for example, by the clerics who stuck around MacMahon in France, and writes menacing articles against them. But at the same time, he will not only not notice the Russian Roman clerical, but sometimes he will sing to him in the fullest unison. There are such, there are. And our cunning Roman clerics may even marvel at them: “After all, they want to flop between two chairs like that,” they nod with their heads. - And how disinterested! True, one must be liberal to the end. After all, they are shouting that Russia does not even have the right to free the Slavs: why, it’s not enough to give them a hundred thousand for this! And all this is between two chairs, minute by minute, but minute by minute. How does it not hurt them only? Heals, or something, they have it so soon ... "

“Okay, Brother Fox. Only you shout from there, where you are standing, do not come close to me: I have fleas today, fleas! - so said Brother Rabbit.