Georges Bataille: Blue Of Noon (1957)

A tormented shadow abruptly fell out of the sunny sky, shaking and snapping in the window frame. Shrinking and trembling I withdrew inside myself. It was a long rug tossed down from the floor above . For one brief moment I trembled: in my daze I thought that the man I call the Commendatore had come in. He would appear whenever I invited him. Even Xenie had been frightened. Like me, she felt apprehensive about a window where she had just been sitting for the purpose of jumping out of it. At the moment of the rug's intrusion, she hadn't screamed — she had curled up against me, pale, with eyes like a madwoman's.