Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
We are on the point of arriving. The little cushion has been returned with many thanks. Kostya deflated it and slipped it into his va Use. The train began braking.
"Well, so long," said the lady.
Energetically and gaily he carried out both suitcases—hers, a small fiber one, and his, of a nobler make. The glass-topped station was shot through by three beams of dusty sunlight. The sleepy recluse and the forgotten forget-me-nots rode away.
"You're completely mad," she said with a laugh.