He was a heavy-set, slouchy man in jeans, broad-shouldered and bowlegged.
She had cleaned up the worst of the mess and changed into a fresh shirt and jeans.
The chauffeur struggled into his jeans and adjusted them before replying.
Thus released, the broad strip of jeans fluttered to the floor.
He nodded toward the strip of jeans left on the floor by the dog.
For all Jeans sympathy found expression in deeds, not words.
She wore boots and a weathered long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
She was in jeans, maybe she was eighteen, maybe she was Rodan's daughter.
The coats of the men were home-made; the materials, jeans or linsey-woolsey.
His jeans and gray shirt, carefully tailored, were also new.
