Vladimir Nabokov. Navidad
Sleptsov raised his head, swallowed something hot and huge. Of whom was his son writing?
"Rode my bike as usual," he read on, "Our eyes nearly met. My darling, my love..."
"This is unthinkable," whispered Sleptsov. "I'll never know...."
He bent over again, avidly deciphering the childish handwriting that slanted up then curved down in the margin.
"Saw a fresh specimen of the Camberwell Beauty today. That means autumn is here. Rain in the evening. She has probably left, and we didn't even ge