Ernest Hemingway. For whom the bell tolls (№ 91661)

They were lying near, and all that was protected, now left without protection. Where once was rough fabric all was smooth with wonderful smoothness and kruglyashi, and clung and trembled and stretched, long and light, warm and cool, cool outside and warm inside, and tight pressed, and frozen, and tormented by pain, and give joy, a plaintive, young and loving and now everything was warm and smooth and full of aching, sharp, plaintive longing, such longing...