Vladimir Nabokov. Primavera en Fialta
Vladimir Nabokov. SPRING IN FIALTA
There was no one on the veranda where we lunched except the Englishman I had recently observed; in front of him, a long glass con taining a bright crimson drink threw an oval reflection on the table cloth. In his eyes, I noticed the same bloodshot desire, but now it was in no sense related to Nina; that avid look was not directed at her at all, but was fixed on the upper right-hand corner of the broad window near which he was sitting.
Having pulled the gloves off her small thin hands, Nina, for the last time in her life, was eating the shellfish of which she was so fond. Ferdinand also busied himself with food, and I took advantage of his hunger to begin a conversation which gav