Word: flannelings
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Riding a milk-white steed, dazzlingly attired in a white flannel suit and golden necklace with ruby pendant, bewhiskered, 240-lb. Benjamin Purnell cut a commanding figure around the Michigan fruit-marketing community of Benton Harbor. A grade-school dropout who was the master of mostly untaught arts, he was the self-proclaimed Seventh Messenger of Christ. Though one coruscant message was celibacy, Purnell was accused more than once of seducing teen-age girls in so-called purification rites. Another tablet from Purnell's private Sinai was the promise of earthly immortality, a cup that Ben himself let pass...
...heroine Pepper derives from Pippi Longstocking, the children's book tomboy who played hooky and didn't wash behind his ears. Neither Pepper nor her big brother Markie can find someone to love them, to make them believe it's worth growing up. Pepper faces down a grey-flannel husband and petty-bourgeois mother-in-law, befriends a looney, and runs off to Europe to find her brother, who carries the world's angst on his shoulders...
...shed the 26th Street Beach obscenities and Californiaisms like "bitchin'" from his speech. During our three-hour talk, he looked like an expensively-tailored cowboy. The beige suede boots were new, as were the red gingham shirt, the black suede vest, and the levi-cut pants of loden wool flannel. He pulled self-consciously at his boots and told us that "we've got the bread and we live that...
...Sorry, lady," said the guard outside the U.S. Air Force PX in Madrid. "The rule says no slacks allowed." The rule had been imposed in deference to Spanish propriety on orders from the commander of the U.S. Military Mission, Major General Stanley Donovan. Clad in grey flannel slacks, the lady, Mrs. Angier Biddle Duke, wife of the U.S. ambassador, and a priestess of high fashion in Washington when her husband was the State Department's Chief of Protocol, sheepishly stepped aside and let Mrs. Donovan herself-clad in the regulation skirt-go in to buy the golf balls they...
...stood there in the Florida sunshine, watching his ballplayers work the winter kinks out of their muscles and smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his pinstriped flannel shirt. "How does it fit, Johnny?" a friend asked. Johnny Keane grinned and pointed to the letters that spelled NEW YORK across his chest. "I hardly ever glance down any more," he said...