T hinking about tomorrow's crime, John Percival Hackworth slept poorly, 
rising three times on the pretext of having to use the loo. Each time he looked 
in on Fiona, who was sprawled out in her white lace nightgown, arms above her 
head, doing a backflip into the arms of Morpheus. Her face was barely visible 
in the dark room, like the moon seen through folds of white silk.