1. "see where they ended and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks,"
- Katherine Mansfield, The Garden Party and Other Stories
2. "According to Yiannis' sister Irini, who had trained as a hairdresser in London, the British spent their long winters in grey and black, and this was why they chose such gaudy colours for the summer: turquoise with blue, orange with pink, mauve with indigo. Colours that didn't go well with the bleached hair of the women and the reddish flush of tans that resulted from too great a greediness for the sun, as if Mother Nature, who hated to be hurried, had imprinted her exasperation on their skin."
- Alison Fell, The Element -inth in Greek
3. "swung his long legs out of bed, and plunged his feet into a basin of cold water—a lifelong habit he believed good for his health.2,3,4 At Monticello, his plantation in the Southwest Mountains near the Blue Ridge of Virginia, the metal bucket brought to Jefferson every morning wore a groove on the floor next to the alcove where he slept.5 Six foot two and a half, Jefferson was nearly fifty-eight years old in the Washington winter of 1800–1801.6 His sandy hair, reddish in his youth, was graying; his freckled skin—always susceptible to the sun—was wrinkling a bit.7,8,9 His eyes were penetrating but elusive, alternately described as blue, hazel, or brown.10 He had great teeth.11 It was early February 1801. The capital, with its muddy avenues and scattered buildings, was in chaos, and had been for weeks.12 The future of the presidency was"
- Jon Meacham, Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power
6. "But Dick Diver - he was all complete there. Silently she admired him. His complexion was reddish and weather-burnt, so was his short hair - a light growth of it rolled down his arms and hands. His eyes were of a bright, hard blue. His nose was somewhat pointed and there was never any doubt at whom he was looking or talking - and this is a flattering attention, for who looks at us? Glances fall upon us, curious or disinterested, nothing more. His voice, with some faint Irish melody running through it, wooed the world, yet she felt the layer of hardness in him, of self-control and of self-discipline, her own virtues. Oh, she chose him, and Nicole, lifting her head, saw her choose him, heard the little sigh at the fact that he was already possessed."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night