Vladimir Nabokov. Mademoiselle O
Vladimir Nabokov. MADEMOISELLE O
The winter she came was the only one of my childhood that I spent in the country. It was a year of strikes, riots, and police-inspired mas sacres; and I suppose my father wished to tuck his family away from the city, in our quiet country place, where his popularity with the peasants might mitigate, as he correctly surmised, the risk of agrarian troubles. It was also a particularly