Vladimir Nabokov. Un cuento de hadas
He lay prone for a while with his hands behind his head, listening to the tenor, who kept wanting to be happy: Five. No, that's absurd. Pity it's not Monday morning: those three shopgirls the other day—oh, there are so many more beauties waiting to be found! And I can always throw in a streetwalker at the last moment.
Erwin put on his regular pair of shoes, brushed his hair, and hurried out.
By nine o'clock he had collected two more. One of them he no ticed in a cafe where he had a sandwich and two drams of Dutch gin. She was talking with great animation to her companion, a beard-fingering foreigner, in an impenetrable language—Polish or Ru