Vladimir Nabokov. Una cuestión de suerte
She started taking off her gloves. A gold wedding ring slipped off her finger. Quickly she caught it.
"I keep losing my ring. Must have grown thinner or something." She fell silent, blinking her lashes. Through the corridor window beyond the glass compartment door the even row of telegraph wires could be seen swooping upward.
Princess Ukhtomski moved closer to her neighbor. "Tell me," she inquired in a loud whisper. "The sovietchiks aren't doing so well now, are they?"
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