She has a face that proclaims her sensuality, lightning in her eyes, an avid mouth, a provocative glance. But instead of yielding to her eroticism, she is ashamed of it. She throttles it. And all this desire, lust, gets twisted inside of her and churns a poison of envy and jealousy. Whenever sensuality shows its blossom, Lina hates it. She is jealous of everything, of everybody else's loves. She is jealous when she sees couples kissing in the streets of Paris, in the cafés, in the park. She looks at them with a strange look of anger. She wishes nobody would make love because she can't do it. She bought herself a black lace nightgown like mine. She came to my apartment to spend a few nights with me. She said she had bought the nightgown for a lover, but I saw the price tag still fastened on it. She was ravishing to look at because she was plump and her breasts showed where her white blouse opened. I saw her wild mouth parted, her curly hair in a wild aureole around her head. Every gesture was one of disorder and violence, as if a lioness had come into the room.
