He leans back on the couch, exhaling in relief. The red leather upholstery is pleasantly cool on the back of his neck, and alcohol makes he feel a little dizzy. The atmosphere of the mansion is conducive to idle thoughts, and he decides not to deny himself such a small thing. A painfully familiar image immediately rises before his eyes: delicate skin smelling of cherry and vanilla, a shirt buttoned to all the buttons, and a skirt that invariably covers her knees. He still did not understand at what point his gaze began to catch her face in the crowd, but the image of the "holy virgin" left no chance. He couldn't bear to know what it would be like to be the one to defame that innocent purity. When have men like him been stopped by some stupid rules? It turns out that the notes left under the door every day along with a bouquet of flowers have a damn strong effect on a girl's mind, even if she were the Virgin Mary a hundred times. His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of heels and the sound of a door opening. A devilish grin spreads across his face of its own accord: she's smoking in the house again and wearing that awfully short dress. It's only three years old, and there's not a trace of the "right girl" left. –"Honey, did you want something?"