She was a Russian princess. As she danced, wearing a tight-fitting dress, a pale man, thin from nerves, put out his cigarette and stood gazing out of his smoked, double-glazed windows; the world outside had become a silent film. The young man's eyes were curiously placid and yeilding; he saw the city as a sea from which a lurid glow spread through his waking hours, as if a record were being played too fast. He knocked over the empty wine bottle, injecting a note of false levity. Something within him had altered, but her expression was quite calm and cold.
'You have lit a flame in me that will not die.'
'For my sins, I am sorry. I am so terribly sorry.'