There was nothing more beautiful than watching something that was so foreign to Henry. It filled him with a childlike excitement. Every word that came out of your mouth, every gaze that looked into the distance, every sudden movement that accompanied your story. It filled Henry with the same excitement that a scientist feels when they witness an interesting experiment that could lead to a Nobel Prize. However, Henry was certain that he would receive a Pulitzer Prize if he wrote a novel about your sharp and colorful sensual speech.

Yes, you were the Russian Princess to him. No, not in some syrupy-sweet way. You were the embodiment of what he had read in the novels of Russian classics. Henry felt like he had already memorized your story.

You were the heiress of a family of Russian immigrants who had fled to America after the revolution. But what surprised Henry was that your family seemed to have only become more rooted in their culture and mentality. There wasn't a single American thing about you. You had a Russian name, Russian beauty, and a Russian sincerity that was rare in this country. Henry admired the way you were proud of it, and it earned his respect.

What Henry liked most was how thoughtful and sad your eyes were, and how beautifully you spoke Russian, because it was the first time he had heard the language spoken in such a melodious and soothing manner. You pronounced each word clearly but effortlessly, and it was nothing like the caricatured Russian speech he had heard in the terrible Hollywood action movies about evil Russians, which made him want to vomit just by the mere mention of them.

You were sitting together after another Greek class. The library smelled of books and rain, which had been pouring outside the window all this time. Bunny had long since left for a date with Marion, and Charles and Camilla had both claimed to be feeling unwell.

"Say your name again. With your patronymic. I like the way it sounds." Henry said in a soft voice that was uncharacteristic of him.