" on the evenings when we took our champagne out into the woods of Chantepie, her changed, provocative voice, her face lit by a pale fire reddening only at the cheekbones, which, since I found it difficult to see in the car in the darkness, I drew toward the moonlight and which I tried now in vain to recall or to visualize in the endless darkness. "

― Marcel Proust , La fugitiva