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Racks of clothes stood at distances from each other across the room: cliques of glamorous ghosts. A mirror covered one wall, sketches and patterns taped to it here and there. Near the opposite wall of paned glass, two assistants worked at a long table topped with computers, stacks of magazines, and wads of fabric. Across a narrow street stood a brick building with small windows framing scenes from a play: actors playing office workers, drifting in and out of cubicles.
"Now," Eddie said once Rebecca had ended her call, "show us what you're working on."
Rebecca searched the coffee table and tugged some sketches out from a pile. "It's Arts and Crafts, and it's Dolce Vita. There's a little kabuki in the silhouette, you see. And Voltaire—I've been reading Voltaire." She turned to Dinah. "I must sound totally pretentious to you, Dinah, but this is what I do. I have to plunder. Fashion is nothing so pure as dance. By nature, clothes must refer."
She continued to make claims Dinah didn't quite understand, but which sounded wild and intelligent, and which made Dinah long to become that person who would understand them, agree or disagree with them. Dinah clearly knew nothing. She hadn't even known that dance was pure.
Eddie voraciously seconded everything Rebecca said. Then Rebecca led them over to a rack and started pulling out suits of pink tweed, tops of accordioned silk, skirts of mossy burlap.
"I'm working younger these days." She held a strange little blue dress up to Dinah. "You could wear this. It's that young."
In general, Dinah sailed on a smooth emotional sea, free from the crushes and contests that stormed on her friends. But now and then, a wave of adolescent emotion would rise out of nowhere and crash against her. Here came one such tsunami: complete devotion to Rebecca Leigh, this queen of the city who treated Dinah as an equal. Dinah loved her more than her best friend, more than her mother.
The main purpose of the last paragraph is to ____
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