Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
The two halves of a broken plate lay, all white, on the carpet. The grapes were scattered.
Kern saw himself in the mirrored door of the wardrobe: a lock of hair fallen over an eyebrow, a starched dress shirtfront spattered with red, the lengthwise glint of the pistol's barrel.
"Must finish it off," he exclaimed tonelessly, and opened the wardrobe.
There was nothing but a gust of odorous fluff. Oily brown tufts eddying about the room. The wardrobe was empty. On its floor lay a white squashed hatbox.
Kern approached the window and looked out. Furry little clouds were gliding across the moon and breathing dim rainbows arou