Word: nightgowned
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...social secretary, goes to a few bridge parties. She seldom accompanies her husband around the State or nation on his speaking trips. She did go to California with him last year and then her friends gave her a "bridal shower" at which she received her first silk nightgown. She has learned that her husband goes into profound abstractions when his mind is thinking out some problem, that he is never to be disturbed at such times. Many a time at 3 a. m. the figure of a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered man can be seen pacing the garden...
...heard cheering news last week: Bob Chanler was better, Bob Chanler was out of bed again. Dozens of them went down to offer their congratulations to one of the greatest painters, one of the most spectacular characters in the U. S. They found him, majestic in a long pink nightgown and shaggy thatch of white hair, sipping a stiff hooker of brandy, and playing Russian Bank with small, vivacious Mile Suzanne Tirlier, otherwise "Tilly," his secretary...
...Hypochondriac Proust used to wear a long nightgown, sweaters, mufflers, stockings, gloves, a nightcap. He lived on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris, in a cork-lined attic room. His curtains were drawn against the tree-dust he found obnoxious. The smell of perfumes, flowers, steam heat, oppressed him unbearably. Only at 3 a.m., when breathing was easiest for his asthma, would he venture into the street. In a drawing-room he would not doff his fur-lined coat. Once someone entered his house from several flights below, leaving the street-door ajar. Quavered Proust: "Shut that door!"-and died. Author...
...lavender cornstarch sauce-the Jap colored the food to make it seem tastier than it was. Aged two, Joan could stagger across the deck and yell "goddamned wind" (picked up from the mate). She thereupon graduated from baby clothes to overalls carved from Stitches' outworn dungarees. Her first nightgown was a flour sack which after many washings still proclaimed her ''Pure as drifted snow." One of her daily chores was to haul up water in a canvas bucket and swab down the poop-deck. As she hauled, one morning, a delicate blue sea-horse drifted...
Volpone and Mosca were played with skill by Claude Rains and Earl Larimore. In his nightgown, his cracked and reedy voice gleeful with deception, Volpone remained to the end a riddle. After the Fox, in planned guise of death, has signed away his coffersful to his servant, Mosca throws into his teeth the question: "Who are you?", and there is no real answer. Volpone is no longer Volpone, for Volpone made a will and died. But he never was anyone; even to Johnson he never was more real than the idea of greed...