'Ooh, that looks nice,' she would say. 'Lovely and pink,' she would sometimes add, a weakness for the colour pink being an infallible sign of the defective taste one associates with certain groups and individuals: the British working classes, grand French restaurateurs, Indian street-poster designers and God, whose fatal susceptibility for the colour is so apparent in the most lavishly cinematic instances of his handiwork (sunsets, flamingoes).
{Context: Mrs Willoughby, the murderous narrator's annoying Provençal neighbour, on his blanc-cassis apéritif.}
John Lanchester (1996)
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