Quotes About Suit

Out of the motorcar (I learned later that this majestic vehicle was a Ford V8) stepped a short, thickset man wearing a smart suit.

It was snowing. Her suit warmed rapidly, and the starvision visor turned the world smoky gray, ethereal, with the snow drifting down in black flakes. The grass was frozen, but she could not hear the crunch of her footsteps: all sound, all vision, all sensation was filtered by her suit. She was isolated from the world, just as though this were one of her first virtual-reality training missions as a cadet.

Rarely does a man wear a suit to a diner in the middle of a workday without politics on his mind.

But no. It didn't suit him. She should have known. He was not a one for fastening. For holding closed. Neither was he dark. Oh no. He was emberant. Incarnadine. He was bright with better bright beneath, like copper-gilded gold.

There was some problem with the regular elevators as some gentleman in a suit and tie was learning. He was poking the up button with the conviction that if he pushed it enough times the out of order sign would magically change to read Fixed.

Attitude aside, a man in a five–hundred–dollar suit, no matter how wrinkled or soiled, does not take to street life nearly as easily as a fish takes to smog. First

And like that black president, you'd think that after two terms of looking at a dude in a suit deliver the State of the Union address, you'd get used to square watermelons, but somehow you never do.

He was hanging up his suit. She watched him straighten the pants. "You ought to throw out the underwear you're wearing," she said. "It's about to fall apart." "I like it when they get so soft, after I've had them a long time.

everything felt fine at that moment; the suit was fine, and the twon was fine to walk in, along the cobblestone street, and we do decide for ourselves when it will hurt.

Now here he was, tailored iron-gray suit, thin maroon tie, a maroon handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. His oxblood wing tips gleamed. He looked like a supervillain or, worse, an upper-crust English spy, an openly promiscuous and functionally alcoholic heterosexual with an on-and-off-again messiah complex. It was the shoes, the way they were tied.