Breakfast at Tiffany's
Everything was piled on the floor of my room, a poignant pyramid of brassieres and dancing slippers and pretty things I packed in Holly's only suitcase. There was a mass left over that I had to put in paper grocery bags (18.3).
She hummed to herself, swigged brandy, she leaned constantly forward to peer out the windows, as if she were hunting an address – or, I decided, taking a last impression of a scene she wanted to remember. It was neither of these (18.11).
The owner of the brownstone sold her abandoned possessions, the white-satin bed, the tapestry, her precious Gothic chair (19.1).