“I belong here.” She murmured. “I'm like these people . . .
“. . . I'm like they are – like Japanese laterns and crepe paper, and the music from that orchestra.”
For a moment this seemed like a sardonic and unneccessary paradox hurled at him across the table.
“You're a young idiot!” He insisted wildly.
She shook her blond head.
“No, I'm not. I am like them...You ought to see...You don't know me.” She hesitated and her eyes came back to him, rested abruptly on his, as though surprised at the last to see him there. “I've got a streak of what you'd call cheapness. I don't know where I get it but it's – oh, things like this and bright colors and vulgarity. I seem to belong here. These people could appreciate me and take me for granted, and these men would fall in love with me and admire me, whereas the clever men I meet would just analyze me and tell me I'm this because of this or that because of that.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned