Vladimir Nabokov. La Veneciana
Vladimir Nabokov. LA VENEZIANA
Frank's face wrinkled with acute revulsion as he silently left the room. Simpson lunged after him.
"Please, I beg you, don't tell anyone...." Without turning or stopping, Frank gave a squeamish shrug.
6
Toward evening the rain unexpectedly ceased. Someone, remembering, had turned off the taps. A humid orange sunset came aquiver amid the boughs, broadened, was reflected in all the puddles simultaneously. Dour little McGore was dislodged from his tower by force.
He smelled of turpentine, and had burned his hand with a hot iron. He reluctantly pull