In the academic circles of St. Petersburg, Bichulin's reputation as a founding figure of Russian Sinology far outshone his modest attire.
A robe that seemed to have been washed countless times, losing its once-black dignity, with its hem soaked by the snow, a heavy accumulation of which pressed his shoulders down slightly.
His face was red from the cold, with fine frost clinging to his eyebrows and beard, yet his eyes sparkled with an eager glow, seemingly able to ignite the cold bonfire around him at any moment.
On these frigid days, he still wore a pair of silk cloth shoes in an Eastern style, this incongruous style of dress exuding a subtle sense of rebellion in his stride.
Poor, but not poor like a beggar.
Decent, but not entirely respectable.
If you placed him on the bustling Nevsky Prospect, it would be like a drop of water falling into the ocean, not even causing a ripple that anyone would notice.
