Vladimir Nabokov. Mademoiselle O
Vladimir Nabokov. MADEMOISELLE O
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She returned to Switzerland. World War I came, then the Revolution. In the early twenties, long after our correspondence had fizzled out, by a fluke move of life in exile I chanced to visit Lausanne with a college friend of mine, so I thought I might as well look up Mademoiselle, it she were still alive.
She was. Stouter than ever, quite gray and almost totally deaf, she welcomed me with a tumultuous outburst of affection. Instead of the Chateau de Chillon picture, there was now one of a garish troika. She spoke as warmly of her life in Russia as if it were her own lo