She faced herself straight in the glass; she pecked at her left
shoulder; she issued out into the room, as if spears were thrown at her
yellow dress from all sides. But instead of looking fierce or tragic, as
Rose Shaw would have done--Rose would have looked like Boadicea--she
looked foolish and self-conscious, and simpered like a schoolgirl and
slouched across the room, positively slinking, as if she were a beaten
mongrel, and looked at a picture, an engraving. As if one went to a
party to look at a picture! Everybody knew why she did it--it was from
shame, from humiliation.
"Now the fly's in the saucer,
Newport 100s," she said to herself, "right in the
middle, and can't get out,
Newport Red 100, and the milk," she thought, rigidly staring
at the picture,
Cheap Newport, "is sticking its wings together."