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					      Appearance – внешность           Short – короткие
                                       Long – длинные
     Good-looking – красивый,          Straight – прямые
имеющий приятную внешность             Curly – кудрявые
     Handsome – красивый (о мужчине)   Wavy – волнистые
     Cool – крутой                     Eye – глаз
     Cute – привлекательный            Face – лицо
     Beautiful – красивый              Ear – ухо
     Attractive – привлекательный      Mouth – рот
     Pretty – милый                    Lips – губы
     Ugly – некрасивый, уродливый      Nose – нос
     Height – рост                     Turned-up – курносый
     Tall – высокий                    Eyebrow – бровь
     short – низкий                    Lash – ресница
     Build – телосложение              Forehead – лоб
     Big – большой                     Cheek – щека
     Small – маленький                 Chin – подбородок
     Fat – толстый                     Neck – шея
     Thin – худой                      Shoulder – плечо
     Slender – стройный                Arm – рука
     Body - тело                       Hand – рука
     Hair – волосы                     Back – спина
     Hair colour- цвет волос           Belly - живот
     Fair – светлые                    Leg – нога
     Dark – темные                     Foot |feet – ступня (и)
     Hair style – прическа             Toe – палец (ног)
     Grey – седые                      Finger – палец (рук)
     Red – рыжие
     Brown – коричневые
     White – белые
        Whenever we see an old film which is made even 10 years ago we often are struck by the
appearance of the women taken parts in the film. Their hair-styles, make-up look dated, their
skirts are too long or too short and their general appearance looks slightly ludicrous. And men,
on the other hand, are recognizable. They don’t look like the people of the other age. It seems
that men resist any attempt to make them change the fashions. That cannot be said about women.
Some leading top-designers in Paris and London lay down the laws and women rush to obey
them. But fashion decrets are unpredictable and dictatorial. One year rips are in and buttons are
out. And the fashion of the next year is reversed. Far from exceptions nobody is surprised with it.
When women are slaves of fashion, only women are to blame. They can’t appear on public with
things out of fashion. So clothes that worn only a few times have to be discarded and women
black male top-designers and department stores. Only women are capable of standing in front of
the wardrobe pack full of clothes and saying: “ I have really nothing to dress.” Changing fashion
is a deliberately creation of waste. Those women who can’t afford to squander vast sums of
money to replace clothes, that have hardly been worn, they waste out of their time trying to alter
dresses: hem-lines are taken up pr laid down, waist-lines are taken in or let out, neck-lines are
lowered or raised. We can’t claim that fashion designers contribute something really important.
They really don’t take care of warmth, comfort and wearability. Beauty!
        There is no a man who couldn’t keep smiling when he see a woman on wintery day in a
flimsy silk dress picking her way through deep snow in dainty shoes. It’s interesting to compare
men and women in the matter of fashion. Do the women’s fashion reflect basic qualities of
fickleness and changeability? Men are too sensible to let oneself be bullied by fashion designers.
Do the fashion reflect the qualities of reliability? That’s for you to decide.

        I like wearing a kind of clothes I know my mother doesn’t wear. I like to look young. I
like wearing bright colours, things that stand out in a crowd: leather trousers and skirts. I like
bright, bright colours in my hair as well, slides and things. But also I die my hair quite often. I
don’t see why I should look like everyone else in the street. It’s fun. Clothes should be fun not
something really serious. I could never spend, I don’t know, a hundred of pounds on a skirt, for
example. It’s just such a waste of money.

        I mean I like dressing up some times but most of the time I actually feel uncomfortable,
especially for my job `course I teach and you know, if I’m wearing a skirt or a blouse I go in and
I feel as I’m teaching really formally and stiffly just because of what I’m wearing, so I tend to
like to wear, you know, I like wearing sort of stripy things and spotty things and bright bouncy
things really. I’m not really bothered about the fashion. So I just like to wear the sort of things,
you know, that liked feel comfortable in.

       I like wearing quite smart clothes, because I feel better that way. I like to feel `cause I’m
presenting a right image, because I come into work, I work in an office. I feel that people need to
have some respect for me. They are going to do that if I’m dressed to look as if I have some
control over my situation and everything else. I enjoy wearing these clothes neither feel more
comfortable and which is an additional part of it. At the present moment I’m wearing a suit, a
skirt and high heels. That’s no because I have to. It’s because I actually feel better that way and
the image that I’m presenting will give people more confidence.

        He still had at fifty-two a very good figure. As a young man with a great mass of curling
chestnut hair, with a wonderful skin and large deep blue eyes, a straight nose and small ears, he
had been the best-looking actor an the English stage. The only thing that slightly spoiled him was
the thinness of his mouth. He was just six foot tall and he had a gallant bearing. It was his
obvious beauty that had engaged him to go on the stage rather than to become a soldier like his
father. Now his chestnut hair was very grey and he wore it much shorter; his face had broadened
and was a good deal lined; his skin no longer had the soft bloom of a peach and his colour was
high. But with his splendid eyes and his fine figure he was still a very handsome man.

        He blushed again and his blue eyes shone. He was not particularly good-looking, but he
had a frank, open face and his shyness was attractive. He had curly light brown hair, but it was
plastered down and Julia thought how much better he would look if, instead of trying to smooth
out the wave with brilliantine, he made the most of it. He had a fresh colour, a good skin and
small well-shaped teeth. She noticed with approval that his clothes fitted and that he wore them
well. He looked nice and clean.

        She had the remains of good looks, so that you said to yourself that when young she must
have been beautiful. She wore her hair parted in the middle with a bun on the nape of her neck.
Her classic features and her size made her at first meeting somewhat imposing, but Julia quickly
discovered that she was very shy. Her movements were stiff and awkward. She was dressed
fussily, with a sort of old-fashioned richness which did not suit her.

Fat, slick, round-faced men, of the sort who haunt barber shops and are always having their
shoes shined. Tall, gloomy, Gothic men, with eyebrows that meet over their noses and bunched
of black, curly hair in their ears. Men wearing diamond solitaires, fraternal order watch charms,
golden elks` heads with rubies for eyes. Men with thick, loose lips and shifty eyes. Men smoking
pale, spotted cigars. Men who do not know what to do with their hands when they talk to
women. Honorable, upright, successful men who seduce their stenographers and are kind to their
dear old mothers. Men who allow their wives to dress like chorus girls. White-faced, scared-
looking, yellow- eyed men who belong to societies for the suppression of vice. Men who boast
that they neither drink nor smoke. Men who mop their bald heads with perfumed handkerchiefs.
Men with drawn, mottled face, in the last stages of artery-sclerosis. Silent, stupid-looking men in
thick tweeds who tramp up and down the decks of ocean streamers. Men who go to church on
Sunday morning, carrying Oxford Bibles under their arms. Tea-drinking men. Loud, back-
slapping men, gabbling endlessly about baseball players. Men who had never heard of Mozart.
Tied businessmen with fat, glittering wives. Men who know what to do when children are sick.
Men who believe that any woman who smoke is a prostitute. Yellow, diabetic men. Men whose
veins are on the outside of their noses. Now and then a clean, clear-eyed, upstanding man. Once
a week or so a man with good shoulders, straight legs and a hard, resolute mouth…


Fat women with flabby, double chins. Moon-faced, pop-eyed women in little flat hats. Women
with starchy faces and thin vermilion lips. Man-shy, suspicious women, shrinking into their
clothes every time a wet, caressing eye alight upon them. Women soured and robbed of their
souls by Christian Endeavor. Women who would probably be members of the Lake Mohonk
Conference if they were men. Grey –haired, middle-aged, waddling women, wrecked and
unsexed by endless, useless parturition, nursing, worry, sacrifice. Women who look as if they
were still innocent yesterday afternoon. Women in shoes that bend their insteps to preposterous
semi-circles. Women with green , barbaric bangles in their ears, like the concubines of Arab
horse-thieves. Women looking in show-windows, wishing that their husbands were not such
poor sticks. Shapeless women lolling in six thousand dollar motorcars. Trig little blondes,
stepping like Shetland ponies. Women smelling of musk, ambergris, bergamot. Long-legged,
cadaverous, hungry women. Women eager to be kidnapped, betrayed, forced into marriage at the
pistol’s point. Soft, pulpy, pale women. Women with ginger-coloured hair and large, irregular
freckles. Silly, chattering, gurgling women. Women showing their ankles to policemen,
chauffeurs, street-cleaners. Women with slim-shanked, whining, sticky-fingered children
dragging after them. Women marching like grenadiers. Yellow women. Women with red hands.
Women with asymmetrical eyes. Women with rococo ears. Stoop-shouldered women. Women
with huge hips. Bow-legged women. Appetizing women. Good-looking women…

Babies smelling of chamomile tea, cologne water, wet laundry, dog soap. Babies who appear old,
disillusioned and tired of life at six months. Babies that cry “Papa!” to blushing youths of
nineteen or twenty at church picnics. Fat babies whose earlobes turn out at an angle of forty-five
degree. Soft, pulpy babies asleep in perambulators, the sun shining straight into their faces.
Babies gnawing the tails of synthetic dogs. Babies without necks. Pale, scorbutic babies of the
third and fourth generation, damned because their grandfathers and grandmothers read Tom
Paine. Babies of a bluish tinge, or with vermilion eyes. Babies full of soporifics. Thin,
cartilaginous babies that stretch when they are lifted. Warm, damp, miasmatic babies.
Affectionate, ingratiating, gurgling babies: the larvae of life insurance solicitors, fashionable
doctors. Episcopal rectors, dealers in Mexican mine stock. Hand-shakers, Sunday-school
superintendents. Hungry babies absurdly sucking their thumbs. Babies with heads of thick coarse
black hair, seeming to be toupees. Unbaptized babies , dedicated to the devil. Eugenic babies.
Babies that crawl out from under tables and are stepped on. Babies with lintels, grains of corn or
shoe-buttons up their noses, purple in the face and waiting for the doctor or the embalmer. A few
pink, blue-eyed, tight-skinned, clean-looking babies, smiling upon the world…
Three men in black, with curious, top-heavy, black velvet hats, sat in a line upon a red-
carpeted dais. Their faces were very solemn and sad. On the left stood two long-gowned men
with portfolios in their hands, which seemed to be stuffed with papers. Upon the right, looking
towards me, was a small woman with blond hair and singular, light-blue eyes- the eyes of a
child. She was past her first youth, but could not yet be called middle-aged. Her figure was
inclined to stoutness and her bearing was proud and confident. Her face was pale, but serene. It
was a curious face, comely and yet feline, with a subtle suggestion of cruelty about the straight,
strong little mouth and chubby jaw. She was draped in some sort of loose, white gown. Beside
her stood a thin, eager priest, who whispered in her ear, and continually rose a crucifix before her

When the room had been cleared there appeared a new figure upon the scene. This was a tall,
thin person clad in black, with a gaunt and austere face. The aspect of the man made me shudder.
His clothes were all shining with grease and mottled with stains. He bore himself with a slow
and impressive dignity, as if he took command of all things from the instant of his entrance. In
spite of his rude appearance and sordid dress, it was now his business, his room, his to command.
He carried a coil of light ropes over his left forearm. The lady looked him up and down with a
searching glance, but her expression was unchanged. It was confident-even defiant. But it was
very different with the priest. His face was ghastly white, sloping forehead. He threw up his
hands in prayer and he stooped continually to mutter frantic words in the lady’s` ear.
He sat on my right hand at dinner, and, judging by appearance, he might as well have been of
note as not. He spoke in German, rapidly, with a precision very much to the point-being one of
those large-browned, bright-eyed individuals who can distinguish between masks and faces at a
glance, and give a pretty accurate guess as to the kind of soul behind either. His under lip was
deeply indented, so that, when smiling, his mouth assumed the same triangular form that
characterized Heine, though his humour, while leaning towards sarcasm, was never bitter.
 A second man emerged from the shadows and without a word took hold of the horses` heads. He
was a short, thick fellow, dressed in a curious brown many-capped overcoat, which came to his
knees, with gaiters and boots beneath it. He wore no hat, and those in the dog-cart had a view, as
he came in front of the side-lamps, of a surly red face with an ill-fitting lower lip clean shaven,
and a high black cravat swathed tightly under the chin. As he gripped the leathers his more active
comrade sprang forward and rested a bony hand upon the side of the splashboard while he
looked keenly up with a pair of fierce blue eyes at the faces of the two travelers, the light beating
full upon his own features. He wore a hat low upon his brow, but in spite of its shadow both the
Baronet and the pugilist could see enough to shrink from him, for it was an evil face, evil but
very formidable, stern, craggy, high-nosed, and fierce, with an inexorable mouth which be-spoke
a nature which would neither ask for mercy nor grant it. As to his age, one could only say for
certain that a man with such a face was young enough to have all his virility and old enough to
have experienced all the wickedness of life. The cold, savage eyes took a deliberate survey, first
of the Baronet and then of the young man beside him.
      The river affords a good opportunity for dress. For once in a way, we men are able to show
our taste in colours, and I think we come out very natty, if you ask me. I always like a little red in
my things – red and black. You know my hair is a sort of golden brown, rather a pretty shade I've
been told, and a dark red matches it beautifully; and then I always think a little-blue necktie goes
so well with it, and a pair of those Russian-leather shoes and a red silk handkerchief round the
waist – a handkerchief looks so much better than a belt.
      Harris always keeps to shades or mixtures of orange or yellow, but I don't think he is at all
wise in this. His complexion is too dark for yellows. Yellows don't suit him; there can be no
questions about it. I want him to take to blue as a back-ground, with white or cream for relief;
but there! The less taste a person has in dress, the more obstinate he always seems to be. It is a
great pity, because he will never be a success as it is, while there are one or two colours in which
he might not really look so bad, with his hat on.
      George has brought some new things for this trip, and I'm rather vexed about them. The
blazer is loud. I should not like George to know that I thought so, but there really there is no
other word for it. He brought it home and showed it to us on Tuesday evening. We asked him
what colour he called it, and he said he didn`t know. He didn`t think there was a name for the
colour. The man had told him it was Oriental design. George put it on, and asked us what we
thought of it. Harris said that, as an object to hang over a flower-bed in early spring to frighten
the birds away, he should respect it; but that, considered as an article of dress for human being,
except a Margate nigger, it made him ill. George got quite huffy; but, as Harris said, if he didn`t
want his opinion, why did he ask for it?

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