He would have had exactly the same hair, face, and body, wearing a hickory shirt and denim trousers; but he wouldn't have looked as he did in the clothes he wore at college, when it was Sunday there, or he was invited to a party at the President's.

I don't see how any man could possibly be handsomer or look finer.

His shirt, collar, and cuffs were snow-white, like everything had to be before mother got through with it; his big loose tie almost reached his shoulders; and our men could do a thing no other man in the neighbourhood did: they could appear easier in the finest suit they could put on than in their working clothes.
Mother used to say one thing she dreaded about Sunday was the evident tortures of the poor men squirming in boots she knew pinched them, coats too tight, and collars too high.

She said they acted like half-broken colts fretting over restriction.

Always she said to father and the boys when they went to buy their new clothes: "Now, DON'T join the harness fighters! Get your clothing big enough to set your bodies with comfort and ease." I suppose those other men would have looked like ours if their mothers had told them.