Devotchka

This evening in the Korova there was a fair number of vecks and ptitsas and devotchkas and malchicks smecking and peeting away, and cutting through their govoreeting and the burbling of the in-the-landers with their 'Gorgor fallatuke and the worm sprays in filltip slaughterballs' and all that cal you could slooshy a popdisc on the stereo, this being Ned Achimota singing 'That Day, Yeah, That Day'.

His arm wrapped her shoulders, and he dropped a kiss on her head. "Come on, devotchka. I'm taking you home."

Meanwhile, three churlish mops stroke their cheeks at the top of the stairs as if to remind the first guest that they are truly the rosy-cheeked devotchkas of yore.

“Comrade Golovkin,” he said. “It is a terrible afternoon, devotchka. May I offer you a ride back to the Kremlin?”