Vladimir Nabokov. Mademoiselle O
Vladimir Nabokov. MADEMOISELLE O
Some more about that room, please. The oval mirror. Hanging on taut cords, its pure brow inclined, it strives to retain the falling furni ture and a slope of bright floor that keep slipping from its embrace. The chandelier pendants. These emit a delicate tinkling whenever anything is moved in an upstairs room. Colored pencils. That tiny heap of emerald pencil dust on the oilcloth where a penknife had just done its Robinson, who now and then looks at her watch: roads must be dread-ful with all that snow; and anyway many professional hardships lie in wait for the vague French person who will replace her. Now the colored penc