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Look Your Best In Sahara And Eileen Fisher Clothes ... . ...

Long Skirts ... However, when you go to a gathering for work, you might want to get out your long skirts when choosing an outfit... Shorter skirts can work out okay while at work, but most prefer to wear longer ones to be taken seriously...

Why Short Skirts Reveal Too Much ... Quant made clothes that were seen in the 50s as shocking; clothes designed as a reaction to the adult appeareance of the time that was perceived by the designer as "unattractive, alarming and terifying, stilted, confined and ugly". It was several years before the hemlines of adult women started to rise above the knee, but the styles of "Swinging London" gradually made an impact around the world, even in Paris...

... by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil—widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.
—George Eliot [Mary Ann (or Marian)

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1809–1882)

I can just remember an old brown-coated man who was the Walton of this stream, who had come over from Newcastle, England, with his son,—the latter a stout and hearty man who had lifted an anchor in his day. A straight old man he was, who took his way in silence through the meadows, having passed the period of communication with his fellows; his old experienced coat, hanging long and straight and brown as the yellow pine bark, glittering with so much smothered sunlight, if you stood near enough, no work of art but naturalized at length. I often discovered him unexpectedly amid the pads and the gray willows when he moved, fishing in some old country method,—for youth and age then went a-fishing together,—full of incommunicable thoughts, perchance about his own Tyne and Northumberland. He was always to be seen in serene afternoons haunting the river, and almost rustling with the sedge; so many sunny hours in an old man’s life, entrapping silly fish; almost grown to be the sun’s familiar; what need had he of hat or raiment any, having served out his time, and seen through such thin disguises? I have seen how his coeval fates rewarded him with the yellow perch, and yet I thought his luck was not in proportion to his years; and I have seen when, with slow steps and weighed down with aged thoughts, he disappeared with his fish under his low-roofed house on the skirts of the village. I think nobody else saw him; nobody else remembers him now, for he soon after died, and migrated to new Tyne streams. His fishing was not a sport, nor solely a means of subsistence, but a sort of solemn sacrament and withdrawal from the world, just as the aged read their Bibles.
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)