If there were a catalog this Bird would like to become truly lost within, it would have to be the latest one from White House/Black Market. It arrived in the mail recently and I've been staring dreamily at its muted palette and atmospheric scenes of wine lingering in crystal glasses, alongside long-necked beauties in decorated woolen cloches, dripping with jewels. It leaves one wishing for a late afternoon sitting at a zinc bar, waiting for F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Sayre to stroll in.
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