Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
Kern remained standing in the middle of the spacious bright room. Some grapes glowed purple and gold on the night table.
"Madwoman," he said aloud.
He laboriously shifted his shoulders. Like a steed he trembled with a prolonged shiver from the cold. Then, suddenly, he froze motionless.
Outside the window, swelling, flying, a joyous barking sound approached by agitated jolts. In a wink the square of black night in the window opening filled and came aboil with solid, boisterous fur. In one broad and noisy sweep this roughish fur obscured the night sky from one window frame to the other. Another instant and it swelled tensely, obliquely burst in, and unfol