Vladimir Nabokov. El retorno de Chorb
At this moment the sound of voices and footsteps came from the corridor.
One could hear the voice of the lackey repeating mournfully: "But look here, there's a lady with him." And an irate guttural voice kept insisting: "But I'm telling you she's my daughter."
The footsteps stopped at the door. A knock followed.
The girl snatched her bag from the table and resolutely flung the door open. In front of her stood an amazed old gentleman in a luster-less top hat, a pearl stud gleaming in his starched shirt. From over his shoulder peered the tear-stained face of a stout lady with a veil on her hair. Be