Twain's End - Pg 188

   A flash of lightning illuminated his shock of hair. "Come over here. I want you to see this."
   At the window, he had slid his arms around her from behind. Conscious that they were in his bedroom, that his forearms were crossed over her ribs, that his sensitive hands with their tapered fingers, an ink-stained callous on the side of his index finger, were near her breasts, she lifter her gaze to the storm sweeping toward the mountains. White fissures sliced the curtains of rain slanting from the black heavens. Thunder jarred the house. At the edge of the lawn, the fir trees reached up as for mercy, their supplications lit up by the relentless lightning.
   Mr. Clemens tightened his hold until she could feel his every contour pressing into her back. She dared not move.
   By and by, the terrible ecstasy beyond their window died away, until the only sounds were the hissing of the phonograph needle at the end of the cylinder, their breathing, and the purr of the now sleeping cat.
   Mr. Clemens's mustache had brushed against her cheek when he spoke. "Is that you, Lioness, or the cat?"
   "Me," she had said.