Oxford shoe

I didn't believe in the unseen at the time, but that tremor carried with it a cold, electric pulse of anxiety.

As I kept my eyes closed, images flashed before me of feet clad in heels and sneakers and black leather Oxfords running in terror over the polished floor of the mall beneath the towers.

I knew the spot where all these feet rushed by.

I passed by it every morning with a crowd of commuters, who poured out of the turnstiles from the A, C, and E trains.

that English skill of making you feel accused, obliging you right from the outset to prove yourself worthy.

For this reason alone, I decided to try on a battery of models, labeled Chelsea Boots, Oxfords, Derbys, Loafers, and so forth.

The style I liked most was a lace-up in horse leather.

I didn't even know they made shoes of horse leather.

plot.

Books, Oxford Shoes, and James McAvoy.

Still true.

Still true.

trains.

No.

Wearing Oxford shoes is brave because burlisters abound.

Like, that's a brave...

Gertrude's step-aunt was married to Sir Frank Lascelles, British minister to Romania, and as soon as Gertrude left Oxford, Lady Lascelles suggested that her niece should spend the winter with her at the legation in Bucharest.

Lady Lascelles belonged to a school of thought which regarded with something akin to distrust highly educated young women who did not have to work for their living, and she felt that a month or so in the gay Romanian capital would rid Gertrude of some of her Oxfordy manner.

Gertrude was perhaps highly educated, but she never let anyone feel that she had taken honors, and if she had not gone to the university, she would have acquired knowledge by some other method.

Lady Lascelles soon found out that her niece had no trace of an Oxfordy manner, and was just as full of the joy of living and eager to have a good time as any girl who had never read a page of history.

Before setting out for the Balkans, Gertrude returned to her home in Yorkshire and immediately set herself to take the county into her scheme of life in the same way as she had taken Oxford.

She interested herself in housekeeping and became an active worker among the women of Bell Brothers Ironworks on the banks of the Tees.

That's true.

And we both wore Oxfords.

We did.

And I think, and you, we were white hat, black hat.

The weather had cooled by the time I reached Paris, where the city's new mayor, Emmanuel Gregoire, was focused on the summer's three record-setting heat waves and on those to follow.

Moments before our meeting, his press secretary messaged, Can we do it by bike? Soon, in the courtyard, Gregoire greeted me in a smart blue suit, brown sunglasses, and jet black Oxfords.

Nearby, someone adjusted a bicycle whose seat turned out to be broken.

Take mine, the mayor said, offering me his green Voltaire e-bike.

Gertrude's step-aunt was married to Sir Frank Lascelles, British Minister to Romania, and as soon as Gertrude left Oxford, Lady Lascelles suggested that her niece should spend the winter with her at the legation in Bucharest.

Lady Lascelles belonged to a school of thought which regarded with something akin to distrust highly educated young women who did not have to work for their living, and she felt that a month or so in the gay Romanian capital would rid Gertrude of some of her Oxfordy manner.

Gertrude was perhaps highly educated, but she never let anyone feel that she had taken honours, and if she had not gone to the university, she would have acquired knowledge by some other method.

Lady Lascelles soon found out that her niece had no trace of an Oxfordy manner and was just as full of the joy of living and eager to have a good time as any girl who had never read a page of history.

Before setting out for the Balkans, Gertrude returned to her home in Yorkshire and immediately set herself to take the county into her scheme of life in the same way as she had taken Oxford.

She interested herself in housekeeping and became an active worker among the women of Bell Brothers Ironworks on the banks of the Tees.

I'd met Ethan at a street food festival years before, the kind of night they close the avenue, string lights overhead, sell roasted corn and ribs off food trucks.

He was there with Gavin, both in creased Oxfords, clearly office escapees, and we'd started talking over the merits of butter versus salt.

He'd been bright-eyed, gently teasing, unflappable no matter how chaotic the crowd got.

He confessed he'd waited an extra half hour for me to finish painting faces at my booth.