Vladimir Nabokov. Amaro
Vladimir Nabokov. ORACHE
Next, Peter was called to the blackboard. He was told to write out the first line of a poem which he was supposed to have learned by heart. He wrote:
... uzkoyu mezhoy Porosshey kashkoyu... Hi bedoy...
(... along a narrow margin overgrown with clover... or ache...)
Here came a shout so jarring that Peter dropped his bit of chalk:
"What are you scrawling? Why bedoy, when it's lebedoy, orache—a clingy weed? Where are your thoughts roaming? Go back to your scat!"
"Well, is it true?" asked Dmitri in a well-timed whisper. Peter pretended he did not hear. He could n