![]() Second there were the so-called Lemon Tarts. They were social X-rays, to use the phrase that had bubbled up into Sherman’s own brain. This season no puffs, flounces, pleats, ruffles, bibs, bows, battings, scallops, laces, darts, or shirs on the bias were too extreme. To compensate for the concupiscence missing from their juiceless ribs and atrophied backsides, they turned to the dress designers. ![]() ![]() First there were women in their late thirties and in their forties and older (women ‘of a certain age’), all of them skin and bones (starved to near perfection). There were no men under thirty-five and precious few under forty. There were no solitary figures, no strays. “All the men and women in this hall were arranged in clusters, conversational bouquets, so to speak. Oh, the X-rays and the Lemon Tarts! I’d be annoyed on behalf of these women only I’m quite sure it’s all true. The description of this party goes on for several pages and is so totally and completely entertaining I can’t put the book down. I can’t resist sharing my delight in the prose of Tom Wolfe. ![]()
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