Humbert Humbert does laundry:

The actual realities of the situation I so happily ensnared myself into didn't properly strike me until several weeks into our travels. Lo, my beloved sprite, woke that morning and promptly began to complain she had nothing to wear. After a solid half hour of listening to her whine without end was I able to ascertain the nature of the problem. Had I refused my sweet girl of something that was indispensable for her happiness? Had I Herr Papa abused his little daughter neglecting her basic needs? No, my beloved simply had nothing clean to wear. Having worn most of her wardrobe several times over it was only when she lacked clean underthings did it become a travesty of epic proportions.

Lolita, my sin, my soul, who happily leads me down the path of perdition by a flaxen cord doesn't do laundry. Mama Haze in typical American middle class fashion, hired out such arduous tasks. No matter, nymphets by their nature do not thrive under the routine or ordinary; no they are a force of nature moving through their day as lithe as the wind through trees.

The motor lodge we were staying, as new and crisp as the fresh highway it sat next to, boasted of modern conveniences. A phone in each room, indoor plumbing, and a swimming pool each highlighted in our travel book. Our proprietor, a thick Nebraskan woman stocky like every other farm wife in that barren state, gladly in a quaint Midwestern way showed me to the laundry facilities but left before imparting any practical knowledge of how to work the apparatus.

I'll admit I'm out of my depth. Valeria handled such things, proving to be as inept in the task as she was cooking. A laundress took in our wash twice a week. I knew enough to know that I needed to wash like colors so I set to sorting my darling's garments.

Separating her clothes was a brief walk through the travels in the past month. Each grotesque motel, ridiculous inn, and bizarre lodge peppered across this country like the parasitic lice. All a caricature of the lustrous European resorts they imitated. This black and red-checkered half top was the rolling smoky hills in Wyoming as we skirted the edge of the Rocky Mountains. These blue sailor shorts were the painted tan hills of the Pueblo Indians and were I was immeasurably tempted to sprint across the Mexican border. Following through on my fantasy of generating a child bride. Every row, every tourist attraction, every night of illicit love was all woven through the fabric of each article of clothing.

After loading the first load into the top of this white monstrous contraption I poured soap flakes over the small pile of nymphet wear. On the box of soap flakes was a sweet blond child barely above the age of a toddler but already showed signs of nymphdom. I smiled as I wondered who would be the Humber she would dupe into hopelessly loving her as I loved my Lolita.