The coat he had put on was the plainest he owned, a fine-woven blue wool without a thread of embroidery. The sort of coat a man could be proud to wear, without having everybody stare at him. A decent coat.
“Maybe a little lace,” he muttered, fingering the neck of his shirt. “Just a little.” It really was a very plain coat, come to think. Almost sober.
Robert Jordan, Winter’s Heart, Chapter twenty eight, page five hundred and fifty six