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the
floor.
Straight from the full-length mirror stepped a short but unusually
broad-she uldered man with a bowler hat on his head. A fang protruding from
his mouth disfigured an already hideous physiognomy that was topped with
fiery red hair.
'I cannot,' put in the new arrival, ' understand how he ever came to
be manager'--his voice grew more and more nasal-- ' he's as much a manager
as I am a bishop.'
'You don't look much like a bishop, Azazello,' remarked the cat,
piling sausages on his plate.
'That's what I mean,' snarled the man with red hair and turning to
Woland he added in a voice of respect: ' Will you permit us, messire, to
kick him out of Moscow? '
'Shoo!! ' suddenly hissed the cat, its hair standing on end.
The bedroom began to spin round Stepa, he hit his head on the doorpost
and as he lost consciousness he thought, ' I'm dying . . .'
But he did not die. Opening his eyes slightly he found himself sitting
on something made of stone. There was a roaring sound nearby. When he opened
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