Vladimir Nabokov. Una cuestión de honor
With exaggerated thoroughness Mityushin began crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. Silence. Anton Petrovich's heart was beating in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but it started pounding even harder. When would the duel take place? Tomorrow? Why didn't they tell him? Maybe the day after tomorrow? It would be better the day after tomorrow....
Mityushin and Gnushke exchanged glances and got up.
"We shall call for you tomorrow at six-thirty a.m.," said Mityushin. "There is no point in leaving sooner. There isn't a damn soul out there anyway."
Anton Petrovich got up too. What should he do? Thank them?
"Well, thank you, gentlemen...