Vladimir Nabokov. Un tipo bien plantado
He shut the window and, on turning around, saw with pleased sur prise that during his mesmeric activities the compartment had managed to fill up: three men with their newspapers and, in the far corner, a brunette with a powdered face. Her shiny coat was of gelatinlike translucency—resisting rain, maybe, but not a man's gaze. Decorous humor and correct eye-reach—that's our motto.
Ten minutes later he was deep in conversation with the passenger in the opposite window seat, a neatly dressed old gentleman; the prefatory theme had sailed by in the guise of