Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
Her silence was enticing. He left his seat and sat next to her. He leered, and rolled his eyes, and knocked his knees together, and rubbed his hands, as he gaped at her profile.
"What is your destination?" she asked.
Kostenka told her.
"And I am returning to—"
She named a city famous for its cheese production.
"All right, I'll accompany you, and tomorrow continue my journey. Though I dare not predict anything, madam, I have all grounds to believe that neither you nor I will regret it."
The smile, the eyebrow.
"You don't even know my name yet."
"Oh, who cares, who cares? Why should on