Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
"Where are we going?" she asked. "To a restaurant:
"We'll fix something to eat at your place," said terribly impatient Kostya. "That will be much cozier. Get in. It's a better idea. I suppose he'll be able to change fifty marks? I've got only big bills. No, wait a sec, here's some small cash. Come on, come on, tell him where to go."
The inside of the cab smelt of kerosene. We must not spoil our fun with the small fry of osculatory contacts. Shall we get there soon?
What a dreary town. Soon? Urge becoming intol