Vladimir Nabokov. La Veneciana
Vladimir Nabokov. LA VENEZIANA
Fixing his eyes on the Veneziana's face, he backed away from her and suddenly flung his arms apart. His coccyx banged painfully on something. He looked around and saw the black table behind him. Trying to think about nothing, he climbed onto it, stood up fully erect lacing the Venetian lady, and once again, with an upward sweep of his arms, prepared to fly to her.
"Astonishing way to admire a painting. Invented it yourself, did you?"
It was Frank. He was standing, legs apart, in the doorway and gazing at Simpson with icy derision.
With a wild glint of pince-nez lenses in his direction, Simpson staggered a