Vladimir Nabokov. La Veneciana
Vladimir Nabokov. LA VENEZIANA
How strange, he thought, how very strange. Is it possible that— He looked at the rags with the paint sticking to them, and abruptly, with an odd frown, wadded them together and tossed them out the window by which he had been working. Then he ran his palm across his forehead with a frightened glance at the Colonel—who, interpreting his agitation differently, was trying not to look at him—and, with uncharacteristic haste, went out of the hall straight into the garden.
There, beneath the window, between the wall and the rhododendrons, the