Bed-jacketed

The character of the bed-jacketed grouch, Sheridan Whiteside, had meantime become identified in the mind of the show-going public with the real Alexander Woollcott.

Mrs. Marrable was already propped against her pillows, bed-jacketed and hair-netted, her book open.

Her breakfast tray, a great wicker affair sprouting a yellow rose, bridged her knees, while combed, powdered and bed-jacketed, she was nested in little pillows.

She waved a bed-jacketed arm in mild amusement, sending out a waft of expensive French perfume.

Long after I had announced my lesbian identity in a very public way, I asked my mother how long she had known that I was a lesbian. Initially I was shocked by her answer. Later I thought, “But of course!” She said, “I always knew.” Always? In utero? Did the obstetrical nurse deposit me into my mother’s bed-jacketed arms wrapped in a lavender blanket?

For, in doing so, in remembering that aristocratic, satin-bed-jacketed figure, she remembered also her look of frailty, the very serious heart surgery she had recently undergone—and Sabina was weakened.

‘Then I’ll ask your Aunt Carrie what sort of a young man this young man is. A chancer you don’t want. And if he’s a boxer …’ Leah lifted her bed-jacketed shoulders, and her hands, high, ‘… a boxer sounds like a chancer. Dolly. Trust me. I’ve been around a long time. I know these things.’

[…]a bed-jacketed and rhinestone tiaraed queen eating grapefruit and smiling for the press[…]