From the first lines we get acquainted with the protagonist of the story Rosemary Fell. Her appearance is being presented. No you couldnt have called her beautiful Pretty? We have rather vague image here. The author writes she is amazingly well-read in the newest of the books which sounds controversial.
Her husband adores her; her child is a duck of a boy. We can trace that she is extremely arrogant and she has a certain amount of charisma. No lilac. Its got no shape. The attendant put the lilac out of sight as though this was only too true. But even fabulously rich people have their problems.
After shutting the discreet door she sinks into a grey cold and dull life of the city, the life of ordinary people to which she is like an alien. A cold bitter taste in the air, sad lamps, regretting fire of lamps, rushing people and their hateful umbrellas everything speaks of her inner dissatisfaction and maybe allergy to the other life, the life which is outside her shelter. She wants to escape from the place and presses a muff against her breast as though touching herself and saying I want to be back to my real life not this awful parody of being.
Suddenly a girl stammered as author writes for the price of a cup of tea in a very desperate way. But in fact Rosemary is amazed instead of feeling some kind of sympathy. She peers through the dusk as though feeling some distance and it seems to her such an adventure. Rosemary doesnt spare even a smallest moment of her thought to stand in the girls shoes or rather she just cant since she doesnt know the opposite side of the coin. The only way of living she knows is one that is in the little antique shop on Curzon Street or, say, another one on Bond Street.