Vladimir Nabokov. El timbre
That blond bob... And her face was made up with excruciating care. The moist streak of a tear, though, had eaten through the rosy paint, and her mascara-laden lashes were wet, and the powder on the wings of her nose had turned violet. She was wearing a glossy blue dress closed at the throat. And everything about her was unfamiliar, restless and frightening.
"You're probably expecting company, Mother," observed Nikolay, and not quite knowing what to say next, energetically threw off his overcoat.
She moved away from him toward the table,