" I sit there. My breasts press against the cotton of my chemise; my thighs burn under my petticoat. I am conscious of my throat, my earlobes, my pulsing blood. My body is throbbing but this is because I have a fever. This is why I am aching, why I am both heavy and featherlight.
The painter works. His eyes flick to me and back to his canvas. As he paints I feel his brush stroking my skin....
I am in bed with my sisters. I keep my eyes squeezed shut because I know he's sitting there, watching me. His red tongue flicks over his teeth. If I open my eyes the wolf will be there, sitting on his haunches beside my bed. My heart squeezes. I mutter my rosary... Holy Mary, Mother of God... I can feel his hot, meaty breath on my face. My hands cupping my budded breasts. I mutter faster, willing him to move closer. "

― Deborah Moggach , Tulip Fever