And, Hippolati was for seven years a cabinet minister in Persia, adds the young man. Yes, says the blind man, he recalls hearing some thing like that. He reminds the old man that Hippolati is something of an inventor, that he invented an electric prayer book. The young man is enjoying this he froths his lies up into greater extravagances. The young man says the first word that comes into his head: ‘Hippolati.’ Ah yes, says the blind man, Hippolati, that’s right, he knows the name, it was on the tip of his tongue. What is the name of the landlord again, asks the blind man. The blind man knows the square, knows the building, in fact. The young man decides to lie, and names a pleasant square, somewhere he could not afford in his present circumstances. In its course, the old man reveals that he is blind. Beside him, an old man is holding a newspaper. He is wild, nervous, seems to fiddle with his soul. A young man, hectic and dirty, sits on a park bench in a cold city.
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