Rosabel looked out of the windows; the street was blurred and misty, but light striking on
the panes turned their dullness to opal and silver, and the jewellers' shops seen through
this were fairy palaces. Her feet were horribly wet, and she knew the bottom of her skirt and
petticoat would be coated with black, greasy mud. There was a sickening smell of warm
humanity – it seemed to be oozing out of everybody in the bus – and everybody had the
same expression, sitting so still, staring in front of them. Rosabel stirred suddenly and
unfastened the two top buttons of her coat… she felt almost stifled. Through her
half-closed eyes, the whole row of people on the opposite seat seemed to resolve into one
meaningless, staring face.