Vladimir Nabokov. Una cuestión de honor
"Yes. No, I have various things to do," replied Anton Petrovich, thinking at the same time, "I hope he proceeds on his way, otherwise it will be quite dreadful."
Leontiev looked around, and said, as if he had made a happy discovery, "Splendid weather!"
Actually he was a pessimist and, like all pessimists, a ridiculously unobservant man. His face was ill-shaven, yellowish and long, and all of him looked clumsy, emaciated, and lugubrious, as if nature had suffered from toothache when creating him.
The shoeshine man jauntily clapped his brushes together. Anton Petrovich looked at his revived shoes.
"Which way are you headed?" aske