Vladimir Nabokov. Un jirón de vida
Vladimir Nabokov. A SLICE OF LIFE
"Yes, Maria Vasilevna," he said at last through his teeth as he lit up, raising high his triangular eyebrows. "Yes, nobody could have foreseen such a thing. I had faith in that woman, absolute faith."
After his recent fit of sustained loquacity, everything seemed uncannily quiet. One heard the rain beating against the windowsill, the clicking of Plekhanov's tobacco injector, the whimpering of a neurotic old dog locked up in my brother's room across the corridor. I do not know why—either because the weather was so very gray, or perhaps because the kind of misfortune that had befallen Pavel Romanovi