Vladimir Nabokov. El dragón
Meanwhile, in a sunlit office, along a carpet soft as moss, paced to and fro with clenched fists the rival manufacturer, owner of the Big Helmet Company. At an open window, observing the procession, stood his girlfriend, a diminutive tightrope dancer.
"This is an outrage," croaked over and again the manufacturer, a middle-aged, bald man with blue-gray bags of flabby skin under his eyes. "The police ought to put a stop to this scandal.... When did he manage to cobble together this stuffed dummy?"
"Ralph," the dancer suddenly cried, clapping her hands. "I know what you should do. We have a nu