Vladimir Nabokov. Humo tórpido
Vladimir Nabokov. TORPID SMOKE
"Is he gone?" came the third question.
"No," said the son, taking a silky handful of cigarettes.
On his way out of the dining room he noticed his father turn his whole torso in his chair to face the wall clock as if it had said something, and then begin turning back—but there the door I was closing closed, and I did not see that bit to the end. I did not see it to the end, I had other things on my mind, yet that too, and the distant seas of a moment ago, and my sister's flushed little face, and t