Vladimir Nabokov. El timbre
"Oh, what does it matter?" she shouted, and rose, almost as if she wanted to block his view of the table. "Why don't you tell me instead what time it is? I must ring up and cancel the party.... I must do something."
"Quarter past seven," said Nikolay.
"Trop tard, trop tard!" she raised her voice again. "All right! At this point it no longer matters...."
Both fell silent. She resumed her seat. Nikolay was trying to force himself to hug her, to cuddle up to her, to ask, "Listen, Mother— what has happene