Vladimir Nabokov. El Elfo Patata
"Fred, why are you afraid of me?"
The dwarf, barefooted, black-robed, his pate beaded with sweat, stood by the wardrobe, still holding on to the ring of its lock. He recalled with the utmost clarity the orange-gold fish in their glass bowl.
She had aged unhealthily. There were olive-brown shadows under her eyes. The little dark hairs above her upper lip had become more-distinct than before; and from her black hat, from the severe folds of her black dress, there wafted something dusty and woeful.
"I never expected—" Fred slowly began, looking up at her warily.
Nora took him by the shoulders, turned him to the l