Vladimir Nabokov. Un cuento de hadas
A tall middle-aged lady in a charcoal tailor-made suit, heavily, yet not ungracefully, swinging her hips, made her way among the sidewalk tables. There was no vacant one. Finally, she put one hand in a glossy black glove upon the back of the empty chair opposite Erwin.
"May I?" queried her unsmiling eyes from under the short veil of her velvet hat.
"Yes, certainly," answered Erwin, slightly rising and ducking. He was not awed by such solid-built women with thickly