It all ended with the circuslike whump of a monstrous box on the ear with which I knocked down the traitress who rolled up in a ball where she had collapsed, her eyes glistening at me through her spread fingers—all in all quite flattered, I think. Automatically, I searched for something to throw at her, saw the china sugar bowl I had given her for Easter, took the thing under my arm and went out, slamming the door.
ATTRIBUTION:
Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977), Russian-born U.S. novelist, poet. “In Memory of L.I. Shigaev,” Tyrants Destroyed (1975).
