Pino pino color painting

Pino pino color paintingPino Angelica paintingPablo Picasso Le Moulin de la Galette painting
Impossibleness not!"
"You truly believe he would, my boy?"
"Yes. No! Bah, I give it up!"
The latter voice, its accent and locutions, was exotic, much in the matter of that same Nikolayan defector's. The former -- exotic too, but gentle, old, and wondrously familiar -- was Max's. Had they been Shafted, then, and was there company in Dunce's colleg? I opened my eyes: I was on a bed now, of sorts -- a sweet straw tick on an iron-wire platform -- in a chamber better lighted than the one before, though no less warm. The floor and ceiling were of concrete, and the wall to which my steel-pipe bedframe was attached; the other walls were comprised of parallel vertical bars in the manner of detention-cells I'd read of. It was, after all, Max and Leonid Alexandrov I heard: they faced each other on the cell-floor, gesticulating as they argued.
"What about the other question?" Max demanded.
"Same like, turned around," Leonid said: "Would go."
"Maios didn't, whenhe had a chance to."
"Was vanity, then. Playing heroness."
"Playing! He died for it!"
"More famous so! Big advertise, name in historybooks!"
I feared to speak, lest the vision of my keeper vanish