It was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake little things in the back of the brain.

He wore no shoes, but, instead, a sort of half moccasin, pointed, though, like the shoes they wore in the fourteenth century, and with the little ends curling up.

They were a darkish brown and his toes seemed to fill them to the end....

They were unutterably terrible....
He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia's voice came out of the void with a strange goodness.
"Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory's sick--old head going 'round ?" "Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan.
"You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia facetiously.

"Ooo-ee! Amory's got a purple zebra watching him!" Sloane laughed vacantly.
"Ole zebra gotcha, Amory ?" There was a silence....