She poses her feet on the edge of her fuming tea watching the chimney in the flames. She reads Shakespeare in her bed, naked in her fur coat. She likes the silence and the crash of parentheses. She only has antique mirrors, yes you know, the circular ones, those that can't lie. She makes bubbles with her vogues thinking of abroad. She likes to be adored with elegance, the English way, wearing grey like you wear the sun.