He rubbed his finger across my cheek, and I knew that if I winced or
screamed it would please him. So I did not wince or scream.
“You are very pretty,” he said. “I like your type. It is near enough the
type of superior Russian women, whom I used to watch, from far off, when
I was a boy . . . and with whom of late years one can have dealings.”
He sat in gloating reverie, and I wondered, if I _did_ scream, whether
the elevator boy would hear me. But Stepan probably paid the elevator
boy well.
He spoke again. “A pretty woman, but a fool, to set herself up against
the strength of a man who knows what he wants. I will tell you a story,
so that you will know you are a fool, and we shall understand each other
better.”