Vladimir Nabokov. Humo tórpido
Vladimir Nabokov. TORPID SMOKE
"Get them for me, Grishenka," she repeated, still more entreat-ingly. "Oh, please! I don't want to go to him after what happened yesterday."
"Maybe I don't want to either," he said.
"Hurry, hurry," tenderly uttered his sister, "come on, Grisha dear!"
"All right, lay off," he said at last, and carefully reuniting the two halves of the door, she dissolved in the glass.
He examined again his lamp-lit island, remembering hopefully that he had put somewhere a pack of cigarettes which one evening a friend had h