Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
"The tobacconist's right on the corner," she sang out, and choosing a plate arranged upon it with loving care the cool, rosy slices of roast beef which she had not been able to afford since quite a time.
"Moreover, I'll get some pastry," said Konstantin, and went out. Pastry, and whipped cream, and a chunk of pineapple, and chocolates with brandy filling, he added mentally.
Once in the street, he looked up, seeking out her window (the one with the cactuses or the next?), then turned right, walked around the back of a furnitu