It is her bust where he has centered her life, as a sculptor would; we never see her feet or legs as we do twinkling Kitty’s at the ice rink, in her skating costume so short and tight that Nabokov had to draw it. It is also where he centers the involuntary exercise of her strength; that ray that pours toward any man she meets, and that they experience as seduction, also pours toward us. The portrait of her steps out of its frame.
