"seeing her face by the light of a post-coital Craven A".

Proust's madeleine is my Craven-A: when we were kids in the 50s, my sophisticated lady mother used to smoke Craven-As. I adored the elegant black cat which adorned each packet. Maybe mum smoked them for the flavour, but I like to think she was attracted by the feline grace of the logo. Dad was a no-nonsense Turf man. When I was 10 or so I sneaked one of mum's ciggies. Pre-pubescent though I was, the guilty sense of dissipated sinfulness which followed pretty much approximated what I now suppose (from books I have read of course) post-coital tristesse to be.

(And am I correct in recalling that P-CT was evocatively evoked in Mary McCarthy's 'The Group'?)