“You are beautiful,” she whispered admiringly. He grew red and muttered something or other. “Go . . . to bed,” he gulped and stroked her burning cheek.
“Do you hate me?” she whispered, blushing.
“No, nothing of the sort.” She did not move, and gazed at him with anxious eyes. He bent down and kissed her. She kissed him back clumsily, in confusion, as if she were kissing a man for the first time. “Go to bed,” he muttered, worried, “I’ve still . . . something which I must think out.”
She got up obediently and quietly began to undress. He sat down in a corner so as not to disturb her. She took off her clothes without any shame, but also without the least frivolity. Simply, without hurrying, she laid aside her underclothes, slowly took the stockings off her strong and well-shaped legs. She became reflective, looked down on the ground, like a child began to observe her long toes, and glanced at Prokop. She laughed and whispered: “I’m being quiet.” Prokop in his corner was hardly breathing: it was again she, the girl with a veil; this powerful, beautiful and developed body belonged to her; she would lay aside her clothing piece by piece in the same lovely and serious way, her hair would fall like that over her composed shoulders, she would reflectively stroke her full arms in the same manner. . . . He closed his eyes, his heart beating violently. Have you never seen her, closing your eyes in the most complete solitude, seen her standing in the quiet light of the lamp amongst her family, turning her face towards you and saying something which you couldn’t somehow catch?
