“The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack’s sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he’d thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack’s own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.”

“A banker is a man who will lend you the short sleeve shirt off his back and demand a long sleeve one in return.”

“The master of this shop was sitting at the door in his shirt-sleeves, smoking; and as there were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from the low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning inside to show what they were, I fancied that he looked like a man of a revengeful disposition, who had hung all his enemies, and was enjoying himself.”

“- I like my shirts.- It's plaid.- There are no rules for shirts. Plaid is good.- Plaid is bad. Although, if you went with a Scottish plaid in wool, it might be okay.- I'm not dressing like some damned highlander, Mercedes.- And the lumberjack look is okay?- You don't like my shirt?”

“He was California from the tips of his port wine loafers to the buttoned and tieless brown and yellow checked shirt inside his rough cream sports jacket.”

“If you have two shirts in your closet, one belongs to you and the other to the man with no shirt.”