Apron Coat Quotes

They were looking after themselves, living with rigid economy; and there was no greater proof of their friendship than the way their harmony withstood their very grave differences in domestic behaviour. In Jack's opinion Stephen was little better than a slut: his papers, odd bits of dry, garlic'd bread, his razors and small-clothes lay on and about his private table in a miserable squalor; and from the appearance of the grizzled wig that was now acting as a tea-cosy for his milk-saucepan, it was clear that he had breakfasted on marmalade. Jack took off his coat, covered his waistcoat and breeches with an apron, and carried the dishes into the scullery. 'My plate and saucer will serve again,' said Stephen. 'I have blown upon them. I do wish, Jack,' he cried, 'that you would leave that milk-saucepan alone. It is perfectly clean. What more sanitary, what more wholesome, than scalded milk?

There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, acquire peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.

Once my father told me: When a Jew prays, he is asking God a question that has no end. Darkness fell. Rain fell. I never asked: What question? And now it's too late. Because I lost you, Tateh. One day, in the spring of 1938, on a rainy day that gave way to a break in the clouds, I lost you. You'd gone out to collect specimens for a theory you were hatching about rainfall, instinct, and butterflies. And then you were gone. We found you lying under a tree, your face splashed with mud. We knew you were free then, unbound by disappointing results. And we buried you in the cemetery where your father was buried, and his father, under the shade of the chestnut tree. Three years later, I lost Mameh. The last time I saw her she was wearing her yellow apron. She was stuffing things in a suitcase, the house was a wreck. She told me to go into the woods. She'd packed me food, and told me to wear my coat, even though it was July. "Go," she said. I was too old to listen, but like a child I listened. She told me she'd follow the next day. We chose a spot we both knew in the woods. The giant walnut tree you used to like, Tateh, because you said it had human qualities. I didn't bother to say goodbye. I chose to believe what was easier. I waited. But. She never came. Since then I've lived with the guilt of understanding too late that she thought she would have been a burden to me. I lost Fitzy. He was studying in Vilna, Tateh—someone who knew someone told me he'd last been seen on a train. I lost Sari and Hanna to the dogs. I lost Herschel to the rain. I lost Josef to a crack in time. I lost the sound of laughter. I lost a pair of shoes, I'd taken them off to sleep, the shoes Herschel gave me, and when I woke they were gone, I walked barefoot for days and then I broke down and stole someone else's. I lost the only woman I ever wanted to love. I lost years. I lost books. I lost the house where I was born. And I lost Isaac. So who is to say that somewhere along the way, without my knowing it, I didn't also lose my mind?

He was a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. He said to the world, 'Go your several ways in peace! Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn-sleeves, put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only - let Harold Skimpole live!

When she first fell in love with Jack, she had dreamed she could fly, that on a warm, inky black night she had pushed off the grass with her bare feet to float among the leafy treetops and stars in her nightgown. The sensation had returned. Through the window, the night air appeared dense, each snowflake slowed in its long, tumbling fall through the black. It was the kind of snow that brought children running out their doors, made them turn their faces skyward, and spin in circles with their arms outstretched. She stood spellbound in her apron, a washrag in her hand. Perhaps it was the recollection of that dream, or the hypnotic nature of the spinning snow. Maybe it was Esther in her overalls and flowered blouse, shooting bears and laughing out loud. Mabel set down the rag and untied her apron. She slipped her feet into her boots, put on one of Jack’s wool coats, and found a hat and some mittens.

You see?’ his uncle said. ‘He has nothing against what he calls niggers. If you ask him, he will probably tell you he likes them even better than some white folks he knows and he will believe it. They are probably constantly beating him out of a few cents here and there in his store and probably even picking up things—packages of chewing gum or bluing or a banana or a can of sardines or a pair of shoelaces or a bottle of hair-straightener—under their coats and aprons and he knows it; he probably even gives them things free of charge—the bones and spoiled meat out of his butcher’s icebox and spoiled candy and lard. All he requires is that they act like niggers. Which is exactly what Lucas is doing: blew his top and murdered a white man—which Mr Lilley is probably convinced all Negroes want to do—and now the white people will take him out and burn him, all regular and in order and themselves acting exactly as he is convinced Lucas would wish them to act: like white folks; both of them observing implicitly the rules: the nigger acting like a nigger and the white folks acting like white folks and no real hard feelings on either side (since Mr Lilley is not a Gowrie) once the fury is over; in fact Mr Lilley would probably be one of the first to contribute cash money toward Lucas’ funeral and the support of his widow and children if he had them. Which proves again how no man can cause more grief than that one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, restaurants and whore-houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flop-houses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peep-hole he might have said: "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing. In the morning when the sardine fleet has made a catch, the purse-seiners waddle heavily into the bay blowing their whistles. The deep-laden boats pull in against the coast where the canneries dip their tails into the bay. The figure is advisedly chosen, for if the canneries dipped their mouths into the bay the canned sardines which emerge from the other end would be metaphorically, at least, even more horrifying. Then cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the Row to go to work. Then shining cars bring the upper classes down: superintendents, accountants, owners who disappear into offices. Then from the town pour Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women in trousers and rubber coats and oilcloth aprons. They come running to clean and cut and pack and cook and can the fish. The whole street rumbles and groans and screams and rattles while the silver rivers of fish pour in out of the boats and the boats rise higher and higher in the water until they are empty. The canneries rumble and rattle and squeak until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women, straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again-quiet and magical. Its normal life returns. The bums who retired in disgust under the black cypress-tree come out to sit on the rusty pipes in the vacant lot. The girls from Dora's emerge for a bit of sun if there is any. Doc strolls from the Western Biological Laboratory and crosses the street to Lee Chong's grocery for two quarts of beer. Henri the painter noses like an Airedale through the junk in the grass-grown lot for some pan or piece of wood or metal he needs for the boat he is building. Then the darkness edges in and the street light comes on in front of Dora's-- the lamp which makes perpetual moonlight in Cannery Row. Callers arrive at Western Biological to see Doc, and he crosses the street to Lee Chong's for five quarts of beer. How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise-- the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream-- be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will on to a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book-- to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves.

The boy stepped behind his chair, waiting with Peter for Frau Steadman to sit down. She removed the apron and hung it on a wooden peg, but then, to Peter’s surprise, she put on her coat. “Mrs. Steadman, aren’t you going to eat with us?” Thomas asked the question before Peter could form words. She tied her long scarf over her hair. “No. You two enjoy your meal.” “But you hardly ate lunch, either.” The woman paused at Thomas’s protest. Her cheeks still appeared pink—from the heat of the cookstove, or something else? “I don’t wish to intrude.” Peter gestured toward a chair. “You would honor us with your presence, Frau Steadman. Please, sit down and eat with us.

Lord Alexander Clarke stood before her, looking quite regal in his frock coat and top hat. She couldn’t breathe. “You’re supposed to be on that boat,” she said, her voice trembling. “Going to London.” “London is no longer my home.” “But Lady Judith—” He stopped her. “She did not want to stay here.” “You were supposed to marry.” He shook his head. “I did not love her, nor did she love me.” She brushed her hands over her yellow apron, streaking dirt down the front of it as he stepped closer to her. The pounding of her heart seemed to echo in her ears. “Why do you Waldrons keep running?” “Micah and I—” she whispered. “We had to finish our journey.” He reached for her hand, and her heart leaped as he wrapped his strong fingers over hers and placed them on his heart. “The trail ends right here, Miss Waldron. With you and me.” “If you don’t call me ‘Samantha’—” He leaned forward and drowned her words with his kiss. Her body warmed in his embrace, her skin fluttering at his touch. Strong and tender. Powerful and passionate. Alex Clarke hadn’t gone to London. He was here, and he wanted to be with her.

I’m only sixteen years old. I’m skinny, half-grown, wearing my deli apron under my coat. I look like every other kid in Praga—poor, underfed, pale from lack of sunlight. I’m a nobody to him. Just like Anna was. He would never suspect me.

Jacob Schwarten his wife heeded it not, but still plagued my child to give her her apron to make a christening coat for her baby, for that it was pity to let it be burnt, her goodman gave her such a thump on her back with a knotted stick which he had pulled out of the hedge that she fell down with loud shrieks; and when he went to help her up she pulled him down by his hair, and, as reverend Martinus said, now executed what she had threatened; inasmuch as she struck him on the nose with her fist with might and main, until the other people came running up to them, and held her back.

Is there aught I can do for ye, sir?” He gave a single nod and reached inside his coat. “I want you to have this,” he muttered, extracting a small bag weighted with gold coins. To a servant of Maude's station, it amounted to a fortune. “Take it, and promise me that if there is ever anything Lady Holland needs, you'll send for me.” The maid's face was blank with surprise. She took the bag, felt its weight in her hand, and stared at him with wide eyes. “Ye don't need to pay me to do that, sir.” “Take it,” he insisted brusquely. A reluctant smile curved her lips, and she dropped the little bag into her apron pocket. “Ye've been a good master, sir. Don't fret about Lady Holland and Miss Rose, I'll serve them faithfully, and send for ye if any trouble arises.” “Good,” he said, and turned to leave. He paused and looked back at her as a question occurred to him. “Why did you try to hide the miniature from me, Maude?” She blushed a little, but her gaze was direct and honest as she replied, “I wished to spare ye the sight of him, sir. I know how ye feel about Lady Holland, ye see.” “You do?” he said neutrally. The maid gave a vigorous nod. “She's a dear, gentle lady, and a man would have a heart of stone not to care for her.” Maude lowered her voice confidentially. “Betwixt ye and me, sir, I think that if my lady were free to choose any man for herself, she might well have set her cap for ye. 'Tis plain as day that she's fair taken with ye. But Master George took most of her heart with him to the grave.” “Does she look at his miniature often?” Zachary asked, keeping his face expressionless. Maude's round face puckered thoughtfully. “Not so often since we came to live on yer estate, sir. To my knowledge, she hasn't taken it out at all in the past month or so. Why, there was even a bit of dust that settled on it.” For some reason the information comforted him. “Farewell, Maude,” he replied, taking his leave. “Good luck to ye, sir,” she said softly.

was a lot of other money, too, so many notes she couldn’t take it in for a moment. Then she began to laugh, a harsh scraping sound that hurt her throat. It must have been here all the time. Enough money for her to escape, and she’d waited while she scrimped ha’pennies together! The laugh turned into a sob and she nearly allowed herself the luxury of a good weep, but forced herself to stop. No time for that. No time for anything but running away. Lizzie grabbed a fistful of money and stuffed it in her apron pocket. She had begun to stand up when she realised that Sam would see instantly that she had found his cache, so she bent down again and awkwardly, with her good hand, put the piece of board back again. It seemed to take a long time to get it into place. Then she staggered out to the hall and fumbled for her coat, moaning in impatience at her own ineptitude. Even as she was trying to put it on and hold it round her bad arm, footsteps sounded outside in the street.

an event during the clean up nearly caused Professor Jules to have an apoplexy. “We have extra protective equipment,” she said, her eyes like flint behind her mask. It was clear that her voice was coming through clenched teeth. “We have masks, gloves, aprons, boots and coats. It would be no trouble for you to wear one, young man.” “Oh, bah!” Cedric waved his hand, his muscles flexing across his shirtless torso. “I fight like this all the time! Blessin’ o’ Uldar keeps the disease away. Just a little prayer and I’m good to deal with all kinds o’ nasties.” Professor Jules’ eyes bugged out of her head within the lenses of her beaked mask. “It is always good protocol to have redundancies in protection. There are spells that hedge out gases, but a mask is very effective at ensuring your safety, as is a coat. Safety is no joke, young man!” Cedric laughed as though she had in fact made a joke. “I fight terrible beasts near every day, missus. I think I’ve been in worse spots than dealin’ with a bit o’ dried blood.” She threw up her hands, muttering to herself and leaving the Chosen to his ways. Cedric blinked. “Was it somethin’ I said?” The wizards nearby chose not to answer, busying themselves with sample collection.