Locked in a secret annex with the incontinent and infirm, Lark is starting to feel like the Underground Man. Day after day she plots her escape, thinks fondly about life before it was illegal to grow old, and neurotically searches for lost objects and connections. Acidly amusing, oddball and timeless, Lark is a novel besotted with coffee, with Chekhov, and the New York of Wilkinson's own childhood: the city where a sharp mind--and a good coat from Bergdorf's--are still all you really need to survive.