Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
No, it was not worth the trouble. Thank you kindly for the treat. Wasting my strength. I'm no longer in the bloom of youth. Rather disgusting. Her perspiring nose, her faded mug. Might have washed her hands before fingering eatables. What's that on your lip? Impudence! Still to be seen, you know, who catches what from whom. Well, noth ing to be done.
"Bought that cigar for me?" he inquired.
She was busy taking knives and forks out of the cupboard and did not hear.
"What about that cigar?" he repeated.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't know you smoked. Shall I run down to get one?"
"Never mind, I'll go myself," he replied gruffly and pas