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Updated: June 28, 2025
For a moment I had a picture of Penelope on the box of a coach, ribbons and whip in hand, with four smart cobs stepping to the music of jingling harness, with bandy-legged grooms on the boot, and beside her some perfectly tailored creature in a glistening top-hat. It was a gallant picture, and one in which there was no part for me.
She looked just as she always does tailored out of sight, little close hat over her smooth black hair, and black eyes shining through a trim little veil that keeps all snug. No loose ends about Mother, I can tell you, from the top of her stunning little hat to the toes of her jolly little Oxfords over silk stockings that would get anybody.
I don't know what they expected to see, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't what they did see. It was evening, but instead of putting on an awfully stunning fur-bordered coat over the things she'd worn to dinner, as she usually does when she goes out in the car at night, Mother'd taken the trouble to go back to the tailored suit and little close hat she wears in the street and for driving.
She glanced down at her tailored suit with true feminine dissatisfaction. "But everything was so so confused, with your being late, and sick is your head better, dear?" Manley, in very few words, assured her that it was.
She was dressed in a dark-blue tailored serge and a black sailor hat, beneath the rim of which the shadows on her face were dark. The room was jammed with people. Every aisle was packed and hundreds were turned away. In the audience was a scattering of fashionably dressed women, for it was possible the inquest might develop a sensation.
When she appeared at supper time Kate's dark eyes shone with admiration and a lurking mischief. At the sight of Helen she clapped her hands delightedly. The younger girl's smart, tailored suit had made way for the daintiest of summer frocks, diaphanous, seductive, and wholly fascinating. "A vision of fluffy whiteness," cried Kate delightedly, as Helen sat down at the table.
He was clad in the rough gray of a Class Six laborer, and his manner was carefully tailored to match. As he was approached by Fours and Fives, he stepped carefully to one side, keeping his face blank, hiding the anger that seethed just beneath the surface.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning was trying to commit suicide by becoming a biological freak, and the Madonna of the Chair was wearing a smartly tailored brown rajah suit. Peacefully and pleasantly one day slipped after another. Some thirty of them had joined their unnumbered fellows and to-morrow bade fair to pass serenely as yesterday.
It was a pale, weary-eyed young woman, dressed in the same plain tailored suit she had worn into the country, who was cuddled to Mrs. Howe's plump bosom when she went aboard the Panther for the first stage of her journey. A slaty bank of cloud spread a somber film across the sky. When the Panther laid her ice-sheathed guard-rail against the Hot Springs wharf the sun was down.
Prince looked hopelessly at Connie's back, for her face was already turned toward the dining-room. How cold and infinitely distant that tall, straight, tailored back appeared. "Ask him to eat with us," Connie hissed, out of one corner of her lip, in David's direction. David hesitated, looking at her doubtfully. Connie nudged him with emphasis. Well, what could David do?
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