Vladimir Nabokov. El timbre
"Nonsense, Mother. They'll come, they'll see your son has arrived, and very soon they'll evaporate. And before the evening's over you and I will go to some music hall, and have supper somewhere... I remember seeing an African show—that was really something1 Imagine—about fifty Negroes, and a rather large, the size of, say—"
The doorbell buzzed loudly in the front hall. Olga Kirillovna, who had perched on the arm of a chair, gave a start and straightened up.
"Wait, I'll get it," said Nikolay, rising.
She caught him by the sleeve. Her face was twitching. The bell stopped. The caller waited.
"It must be your guests,&