There was a photograph enclosed of Seraphim Street, looking like most of Moscow’s side-streets, almost past repair, blank, narrow, patched and peeling, with children crowded around a horse and cart selling something unidentifiable. Above was a white sky with vast, even whiter clouds. The shop-signs made Frank feel homesick. Perlov’s tea-bricks, Kapral cigarettes 20 for 5 kopeks, and a kabak with a name that looked like Markel’s Bar.
