From Bécquer Eternal
He was gone and back so fast that, but for the mask he held now in his hands I wouldn’t have noticed he had moved at all.
I stood and examined the mask, a delicate piece of art made of ivory silk with colorful feathers.
“Don’t you like it?” Bécquer asked, as I hesitated to pick it up.
Again he smiled, the smile of a child pleased with himself. “Federico bought it for me last year when he was in Venice.”