Vladimir Nabokov. El retorno de Chorb
Presently she straightened up, yawned, scratched her thigh, and, just as she was, naked, but in her stockings, drew aside the window curtain. Behind the curtain the casement was open and one could make out, in the velvety depths, a corner of the opera house, the black shoulder of a stone Orpheus outlined against the blue of the night, and a row of light along the dim facade which slanted off into darkness. Down there, far away, diminutive dark silhouettes swarmed as the