It's drizzling and a lot of men are staying in." Kenny, moodily painting the skin beneath the hole in his sock black, flung down the brush and found his coat.
"Once," said Mac in a panic of laughter, "he painted hairs on the bald parts of Frieda Fuller's pony-skin coat.

Thick, plutocraticky sort of hairs.

I shan't forget 'em.

And they melted and smudged her neck.
Remember, Kenny?
You ridged 'em beautifully--" Kenny did not answer.

He strode toward the door.