rug and threw it over her. She pushed it away in fury and then he wrapped her up in it from her head to her heels, as if she were a package, and clasped her in his arms: “Don’t move!”
“What are you up to?” threw out Daimon casually from the wheel. “Well. . .”
Prokop pretended that he had not heard this piece of cynicism, but the package in his arms began to giggle quietly.
“She’s a good girl,” continued Daimon calmly. “Her father was an author.” The package nodded and Daimon told Prokop a name so famous, so sacred and pure that he was positively aghast and involuntarily relaxed his grasp. The package twisted round and bounced on his lap; from beneath the rug there projected a pair of beautiful, wicked legs, which childishly kicked about in the air. He drew the rug over her so that she should not be cold, but she seemed to regard this as a game, was convulsed with laughter, and went on kicking her legs about. He held her as firmly as he could, but her hands slid out from the rug and played over his face, pulled his hair, tickled his neck and found their way in between his lips. At length he let her go on; she felt about his forehead, found it severely furrowed, and drew back as if she had been burned. Now it was a venturesome child’s hand which did not know what it was allowed to do. It gently and surreptitiously approached his face, touched it, drew away, touched it again, smoothed it and at last timidly rested on his rough cheek. From the rug there, came the sound of deep breathing.
