Vladimir Nabokov - Lolita

I am thrifty and i am absolutely filthy in thought

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I am thrifty and I am absolutely filthy in thought, word and deed.” “Now I do hope that’s all, you witty child.” “Yep. That’s all. No—wait a sec. We baked in a reflector oven. Isn’t that terrific?” “Well, that’s better.” “We washed zillions of dishes. ‘Zillions’ you know is schoolmarm’s slang for many- many-many-many. Oh yes, last but not least, as Mother says — Now let me see — what was it? I know we made shadowgraphs. Gee, what fun.” C’est bien tout? C’est . Except for one little thing, something I simply can’t tell you without blush- ing all over.” “Will you tell it me later?” “If we sit in the dark and you let me whisper, I will. Do you sleep in your old room or in a heap with Mother?” “Old room. Your mother may have to undergo a very serious operation, Lo.” “Stop at that candy bar, will you,” said Lo. Sitting on a high stool, a band of sunlight crossing her bare brown forearm, Lo- lita was served an elaborate ice-cream concoction topped with synthetic syrup. It was erected and brought her by a pimply brute of a boy in a greasy bow-tie who eyed my fragile child in her thin cotton frock with carnal deliberation. My impatience to reach Briceland and The Enchanted Hunters was becoming more than I could endure. For- tunately she dispatched the stuff with her usual alacrity. “How much cash do you have?” I asked. “Not a cent,” she said sadly, lifting her eyebrows, showing me the empty inside of her money purse.
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77 Vladimir Nabokov — Lolita “This is a matter that will be mended in due time,” I rejoined archly. “Are you coming?” “Say, I wonder if they have a washroom.” “you are not going there,” I said Firmly. “It is sure to be a vile place. Do come on.” She was on the whole an obedient little girl and I kissed her in the neck when we got back into the car. Don’t do that,” she said looking at me with unfeigned surprise. “Don’t drool on me. You dirty man.” She rubbed the spot against her raised shoulder. “Sorry,” I murmured. “I’m rather fond of you, that’s all.” We drove under a gloomy sky, up a winding road, then down again. “Well, I’m also sort of fond of you,” said Lolita in a delayed soft voice, with a sort of sigh, and sort of settled closer to me. (Oh, my Lolita, we shall never get there!) Dusk was beginning to saturate pretty little Briceland, its phony colonial archi- tecture, curiosity sops and imported shade trees, when we drove through the weakly lighted streets in search of the Enchanted Hunters. The air, despite a steady driz- zle beading it, was warm and green, and a queue of people, mainly children and old men, had already formed before the box office of a movie house, dripping with jewel-fires.
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