Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
Beyond the windows the snows were dimming and turning blue. Delicate hues illumined the sky. The flaps of the revolving door at the entrance to the din-filled vestibule slowly glinted as they admitted clouds of vapor and snorting, florid-faced people tired after their snowy games. The stairs breathed with footfalls, exclamations, laughter. Then the hotel grew still: everyone was dressing for dinner.
Kern, who had fallen into a vague torpor in his armchair in his twi-lit room, was awakened by the gong's vibrations. Rev