Vladimir Nabokov. El cuento de Navidad
The critic rose. "Where are you off to? It's still early," said Novodvortsev, but he got up too. Anton Goliy cleared his throat and pressed his briefcase to his side.
"He will become a writer, there's no doubt about it," said the critic with indifference, roaming about the room and stabbing the air with his spent cigarette. Humming, with a raspy sound, through his teeth, he droop