Vladimir Nabokov. El timbre
Quickly she embraced him and pressed a wet cheek to his neck. Then she squeezed his hand and suddenly cried out in astonishment.
"Blown off by a bullet," laughed Nikolay. "Good-bye, my dearest."
She felt the smooth stub of his finger and gave it a cautious kiss. Then she put her arm around her son and walked with him to the door.
"Please write often.... Why are you laughing? All the powder must have come off my face?"
And no sooner had the door shut after him than she flew, her blue dress rustling, to the telephone.