Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
"I want to eat," she replied in a long-drawn-out voice.
She smacked his hand away, and went into the kitchen. Kostya fol lowed her.
"Roast beef," she said. "White bread. Butter. Our celebrated cheese. Coffee. A pint of cognac. Goodness me, can't you wait a little? Let me go, it's indecent."
Kostya, however, pressed her against the table, she started to giggle-helplessly, his fingernails kept catching in the knit silk of her green undies, and everything happened very ineffectually, uncomfortably, and prematurely. ttPfui!v she uttered, smiling.