Sophie tired of the miracles and checked on her bundle in the white wicker bassinet; she lifted it out and brought it to her chest. The boy stared fixedly at Sophie until she looked down and noticed a little clump of fine dark hair sticking to her cream cashmere jumper.
(Julia Leigh, Disquiet)
But one day there was a younger woman at the surgery, more slender and well groomed than me. I remember the cream jacket she wore – it came down to her knees and was tied at the waist – and I remember wondering how she could wear that jacket and keep it so clean.
(Gretchen Shirm, Having Cried Wolf, ‘Having cried wolf’)
I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.