A hundred years ago her great-great-grandfather, Seymour Parry,
Newport Cigarettes, who ran
away with Conway's daughter, had walked down Bond Street. Down Bond
Street the Parrys had walked for a hundred years, and might have met the
Dalloways (Leighs on the mother's side) going up. Her father got his
clothes from Hill's. There was a roll of cloth in the window,
and here just one jar on a black table,
Cheap Newport Cigarettes, incredibly expensive;
like the thick pink salmon on the ice block at the fish monger's. The
jewels were exquisite--pink and orange stars, paste, Spanish,
Buy Newport Cigarette, she
thought, and chains of old gold; starry buckles, little brooches which
had been worn on sea-green satin by ladies with high head-dresses. But no
good looking! One must economise. She must go on past the picture
dealer's where one of the odd French pictures hung, as if people had
thrown confetti--pink and blue--for a joke. If you had lived with
pictures (and it's the same with books and music) thought Clarissa,
passing the Aeolian Hall, you can't be taken in by a joke.