They wore violet ties and tight-fitting jackets with trench belts and short trousers that should have been worn by their younger brothers.

The actor on the next floor, unshaven and obviously just out of bed, was cooking breakfast in his cubby-hole.

He wore the upper part of his pajamas and a pair of incredibly dirty flannel trousers.

The marks of last night's grease paint were on his temples and eyebrows.

He hummed a little song to the accompaniment of sizzling bacon.
When Martin knocked on the door of the apartment of the girl to whom he had never spoken except over the telephone and whose name he remembered to be Irene Stanton, a high-pitched, nasal voice cried out.
"Come right in." He went right in and was charged at by a half-bred Chow whose bark was like a gunman's laugh, and a tiny pink beast which worked itself into a state of hysterical rage.