The British Club in Drutsky Alley was shrouded in thick gray haze, and the oak door ring reflected the cold light of icicles.
When Arthur stepped into the entertainment room, his nose caught a warm hint of Darjeeling black tea and Havana cigars. The yellowing spine of "King Lear" on the bookshelf coincidentally overlapped with Pushkin's fluffy curls in a subtle manner.
The Russian great poet, who was reclining on a sheepskin sofa chatting with acquaintances, couldn't help but tease upon seeing the arrival of this British Knight: "Sir, you're seven minutes late."
