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(Look inspired by Adrian Lyne's film version)
Sometimes (I have nothing to say in reply to your question), while Lolita would be haphazardly preparing her homework, sucking a pencil, lolling sideways in an easy chair with both legs over its arm, I would shed all my pedagogic restraint, dismiss all our quarrels, forget all my masculine pride--and literally crawl on my knees to your chair, my Lolita!
You would give me one look--a gray furry question mark of a look: "Oh no, not again" (incredulity, exasperation); for you never deigned to believe that I could, without any specific designs, ever crave to bury my face in your plaid skirt, my darling! The fragility of those bare arms of yours--how I longed to enfold them, all your four limpid lovely limbs, a folded colt, and take your head between my unworthy hands, and pull the temple-skin back on both sides, and kiss your chinesed eyes, and--"Pulease, leave me alone, will you," you would say, "for Christ's sake leave me alone."
And I would get up from the floor while you looked on, your face deliberately twitching in imitation of my tic nerveux.
But never mind, never mind, I am only a brute, never mind, let us go on with my miserable story.