Only his vision was clouded; not the mechanical skill necessary to pilot his mother's big car safely into the garage.
Whim held the five in the rear seats absorbed in their own maudlin comicalities.

The fellow beside Jack did not seem to take any interest in his surroundings, and the five gave the front seat no further attention.

Jack drove circumspectly, leaning a little forward, his bare arms laid up across the wheel and grasping the top of it.

Brown as bronze, those arms, as were his face and neck and chest down to where the open V of his sport shirt was held closed with the loose knot of a crimson tie that whipped his shoulder as he drove.

A fine looking fellow he was, sitting there like the incarnation of strength and youth and fullblooded optimism.