Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
"Soon," answered Kostya, "soon. I'll tell her. Good-bye."
After a series of receding creaks the stairs became silent. Kostya made for the window. A gangling youth, death's apprentice, rain cloaked, hatless, with a small close-cropped smoke-blue head, crossed the street and vanished around the corner. A few moments later from another direction appeared the lady with a well-filled net bag.
The door's upper lock clicked, then its lower one.
"Phew!" she said, entering. "What a load of things I bought!"
"Later, later,"