1 Carol picked at Kennicott's sleeve.
2 Her cheek near his sleeve, she studied a dozen village pictures.
3 He had a golf jacket of jersey, worn through at the creases in the sleeves.
4 He came to supper in his shirt sleeves, his vest partly open, revealing discolored suspenders.
5 Through her thin linen sleeve she could feel the crumply warmth of his familiar brown jersey coat.
6 A man in shirt sleeves, presumably Del Snafflin the proprietor, shaving a man who had a large Adam's apple.
7 He turned and plodded back, a ponderous furry figure, holding the horses' bridles, Carol's hand dragging at his sleeve.
8 His coat off, his sleeves rolled up, he was scrubbing his hands in a tin basin in the sink, using the bar of yellow kitchen soap.
9 But he said nothing, nor she; he patted her sleeve, she returned the pat, and they crossed the railroad tracks, found a road, clumped toward open country.
10 But she exclaimed over the lakes: dark water reflecting wooded bluffs, a flight of ducks, a fisherman in shirt sleeves and a wide straw hat, holding up a string of croppies.
11 From the vestibule she waved to them, but she clung a second to the sleeve of the brakeman who helped her down before she had the courage to dive into the cataract of hand-shaking people, people whom she could not tell apart.
12 Sunday mornings Carol heard him trudging up to the attic and there, an hour later, she found him turning over boots, wooden duck-decoys, lunch-boxes, or reflectively squinting at old shells, rubbing their brass caps with his sleeve and shaking his head as he thought about their uselessness.