"then, suddenly, amory perceived the feet, and with a rush of blood to the head he realized he was afraid. the feet were all wrong . . . with a sort of wrongness that he felt rather than knew. . . . it was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake little things in the back of the brain. he wore no shoes, but, instead, a sort of half moccasin, pointed, though, like the shoes they wore in the fourteenth century, and with the little ends curling up. they were a darkish brown and his toes seemed to fill them to the end. . . . they were unutterably terrible."