“Defeat, when it came, was like a pall of smoke hanging over our heads, lowering our horizons,” Yeltsin said, sitting back in his chair, one boot on the boxwood table in the centre of the otherwise empty room. He lit a cigarette and took a deep draught, the livid scar near his mouth pinching into a white line as he inhaled. “That’s why we did the things we did. You would too. Anyone would.”
This is a private blog