Vladimir Nabokov. El Elfo Patata
The conjuror sat down at Fred's table and leaned his elbow upon it.
"How's your head—doesn't hurt?" he inquired indifferently.
Fred wiped his lips with the napkin; he did not know how to start, still fearing to cause his friend too much anguish.
"By the way," said Shock, "tonight I appear together with you for the last time. That chap is taking me to America. Things look pretty good."
"I say, Shock—" and the dwarf, crumbling bread, groped for adequate words. "The fact is... Be brave, Shock. I love your wife. This morning, after you left, she and I, we two, I mean, sh