Plutonic Rainbows

Fable 5 is back today, nearly three weeks after it vanished. On June 12 the government applied export controls to Anthropic's two newest models, and because there was no way to check a user's nationality in real time, the company pulled Fable and Mythos for everyone, foreign or not. The controls came off on June 30. As of this morning Fable 5 runs again on Claude.ai, Claude Code, and the rest. That's the headline, and it's the least interesting part of the announcement.

What tripped the whole thing was a bypass Amazon's researchers found: prompt Fable a certain way and it would list software vulnerabilities. Anthropic's own account is unusually deflating about it. The technique "did not expose any unique Mythos-level cyber capabilities," they write, and less capable models could be coaxed into the same behavior. So a model serving hundreds of millions of people got switched off worldwide over something the vendor itself now grades as borderline, and that a weaker model could already do. An afternoon letter, a planet-sized consequence.

The classifier is where the fix lives. A new one blocks the specific technique in "over 99%" of cases, and when it trips, the request quietly reroutes to Opus 4.8. The pricing is its own tell: on Pro, Max, Team and select enterprise plans, Fable is included for up to half your weekly usage through July 7, then switches to paid usage credits. It comes back for a week at the old deal, and after that it comes back for money.

The bigger move is the machinery around it. Anthropic is proposing a shared framework for scoring how severe a jailbreak is, rated on capability gain, breadth, ease of weaponization, and discoverability, built jointly with Amazon, Microsoft and Google. It was Amazon's researchers who found the flaw that pulled Fable in the first place, and Amazon now helps write the scale that decides how bad the next one is. Next to that framework sit four commitments to the government: pre-release access to models and safeguards, faster sharing of jailbreaks, dedicated joint research, and a "voluntary" industry security standard. I called this shape two weeks ago: not a license, because a license implies criteria a court could test, but something that behaves like one while keeping the discretion intact. Here it is, written into a redeployment blog as good citizenship.

I don't think Anthropic is the villain here. A company handed a Friday-afternoon shutdown did roughly what it could to get its product back on. But "back" is carrying a lot of weight in the coverage. The model that returns today isn't the model that left. It left as a thing you could just use. It comes back as a thing you're cleared to use, on terms the labs will help write while the government keeps the pen. Fable launched with a trapdoor. It reopens with a turnstile.

Five months ago, a YouTube channel called WorldofAI posted a video calling it the greatest coding model ever, built on leaked screenshots and a guess at the release date. By June, the guessing had hardened into specifics that got repeated across a dozen SEO blogs: codename Fennec, 82.1% on SWE-bench, a launch on February 3rd that never happened. I went looking for all three in what Anthropic actually published today, June 30th: an announcement and a system card that runs past a hundred and forty pages. None of them hold up: no Fennec in either document, no February launch, and nothing in the system card matching that exact score.

Sonnet 5 itself is more modest than the rumor mill promised, and I think more interesting for it. It's pitched as the most agentic Sonnet yet: it can plan, reach for a browser or terminal, and run unattended at a level Anthropic says used to require an Opus-class model. That's the headline Anthropic chose this time, not a single score but a capability claim, that the gap between Sonnet (cheap) and Opus (expensive) has narrowed. I wrote about how Anthropic keeps redrawing that line between its model tiers earlier this month; Sonnet 5 is the latest redraw, and for once it's the cheap tier moving up rather than the expensive one moving down.

Pricing backs the framing, sort of. Introductory rates are $2 per million input tokens and $10 per million output, through August 31st, before settling at $3/$15 — the same headline numbers the rumor sites had floated months ago while getting everything else wrong. There's a catch I had to read twice: a new tokenizer means the same input now produces up to 35% more tokens than before, so the lower sticker price is partly an accounting trick to keep the transition cost-neutral rather than a straightforward discount.

The system card is where the honesty gets interesting. Anthropic writes that the risk of significantly harmful outcomes from Sonnet 5 "is very low, but higher than for models prior to Claude Mythos Preview" (Mythos being the more capable, more tightly held line that sits above Sonnet and Opus), and that its autonomy-relevant capabilities stay under that line's threshold. It's a company grading its own homework, and for once grading itself down rather than up. I'll credit that without fully trusting it.

I'd hold the applause regardless. Sonnet 4.5 arrived in September to real praise, then spent the following weeks absorbing complaints on Reddit and Hacker News about hallucinated APIs and a "laziness" that hadn't been there before, the kind of problem that never shows up in day-one coverage because day-one coverage happens before anyone has used the thing for six straight weeks. Sonnet 5 will get the same grace period and probably the same reckoning. The review I actually want to read isn't this one. It's the one written in late August, after the introductory pricing expires and the early-adopter goodwill has worn thin enough for people to start complaining honestly.

In a single month, Washington switched one company's frontier model off for the entire planet, then asked a second company to hold its next one back and clear users one at a time. Anthropic lost Fable 5 and Mythos 5 to an export-control letter in June. Two weeks later OpenAI agreed to ship GPT-5.6 as a vetted preview, with the government signing off on access customer by customer. Two very different episodes, one underlying instrument: a discretionary power the executive holds over who may run the most capable models, used without a statute, without a published finding, without any way to argue back.

That instrument isn't going anywhere. The legal hook already exists, ECCN 4E091 put closed-weight models trained above 10^26 operations on the control list at the start of 2025, and the broader draft rules reported in March would make the US a gatekeeper for nearly every high-end processor sold by an American firm. So the useful question isn't whether the government keeps its hand on the dial. It's what the dial does to the industry between now and the middle of 2028, now that everyone building or buying frontier AI has to assume it's there.

It gets written down, but only just. The unwritten version is too useful to abandon and too awkward to leave naked. A power exercised through letters fired off on a Friday afternoon invites lawsuits and bad press every time it's used, so the pressure to dress it up is real. Expect a regime that looks like licensing without admitting to it: mandatory pre-release sharing windows, the thirty-day notice the December executive order already floated, attestations, geofencing the labs can't actually enforce. Nobody will call it a license, because a license implies criteria a court could test. It'll behave like one while keeping the discretion that made the original letters work. The legal authority for all this is plausible while the facts stay murky, and that gap, real authority paired with evidence nobody outside the room gets to test, is exactly the space a formalized version will try to keep open.

The labs self-censor well before anyone asks. None of it leaves a paper trail, which is what makes this the hardest shift to prove and the one I'd bet on hardest. Once a company knows a model judged "too capable" can be pulled over a weekend on secret evidence, the rational move is to ship under that ceiling. Trim the demos, hold the riskiest capability back, route the spicier stuff through enterprise contracts where it's quieter. Anthropic spent the spring asking for a coordinated brake on frontier development and then learned what a brake feels like when someone else works the pedal. Every competitor watched that happen. The chilling effect won't show up in a press release. It shows up as a frontier that quietly advances slower in public than it does in the lab.

Allies stop waiting, slowly. The shutdown hit exactly the governments whose hospitals and researchers were mid-sentence when Fable went dark, and the reaction in Brussels and London was immediate talk of technological sovereignty. For those capitals the foreign-access ban was the moment America dropped its hands-off pose, and that kind of grievance funds budgets. By 2028 I'd expect real mid-tier domestic capability in the EU and a serious UK design play, plus a great deal of sovereign-AI theater that amounts to renting the same American chips behind a national flag. The mismatch I keep running into is that a directive takes an afternoon and a frontier lab takes a decade. Money chases the rhetoric faster than it closes that gap.

Open weights become the substrate nobody can switch off. A power aimed at denying capability to foreign nationals pushes those exact users toward models the agency can't reach. The cheap, capable, open-weight releases coming out of China have no off switch a US official can flip, and neither does a model running locally on someone's own hardware. I expect demand for the uncontrollable option to rise precisely because the controllable one became political. That isn't a win for anyone's security. It's capability sliding toward the places US leverage can't reach, which leaves Washington with less sight of frontier risk, not more.

Then the market splits into an approved frontier and everything beneath it. Picture two tiers by 2028: a small set of vetted, gated, government-cleared top models available to the US and a short list of close allies, and a much larger field of slightly-less-capable systems that ship the normal way. The gap between them stops tracking who has the best researchers and starts tracking who cleared the process. Build a sector on that and the most capable tier competes on clearance instead of merit, which is a peculiar incentive to hand an industry that sells itself on speed.

I could be wrong about the codification. An unwritten power that works in an afternoon is worth far more to the people holding it than a statute they'd have to stand up and defend in court, so maybe it never gets written down at all, and the whole thing just runs on letters and quiet phone calls indefinitely. I genuinely can't tell which way that one breaks. The direction underneath both versions is the part I'd put money on: the default is moving from "ship it and see" to "ask first," and the asking goes to an office that owes nobody an explanation, on evidence nobody outside the room gets to see. Two more years of that and asking won't feel like an interruption to how frontier models reach people. It'll just be the shape of the thing.

The woman staring down the lens in this copper-and-fur look belongs to a kind of runway that has since vanished. She's wrapped in a quilted jacket the colour of a new penny, a fur collar swallowing the neck, ochre gloves, a studded leather belt cinching the whole thing at the waist. The face does most of the work: heavy brows, a level unbothered gaze, the strong unsoftened bone structure the era prized. This is Christian Dior ready-to-wear, fall and winter 1992, and the longer I look the more it reads like a photograph from a country that has stopped issuing passports.

Dior in 1992 belonged to Gianfranco Ferré. He'd taken the house in 1989, the first man who wasn't French to run the most French label there was, hired by Bernard Arnault not long after LVMH took control. Ferré had trained as an architect at the Politecnico di Milano and never put up a building. He built clothes instead, and the press never let him forget the degree; "the architect of fashion" trailed him everywhere he went. At Dior he set out to do something genuinely unfashionable. Where Marc Bohan had spent close to thirty years on flirtation and romance, Ferré went for what the house itself later called refined, sober, strict.

The fur on that jacket isn't incidental. Ferré's brief at Dior wasn't only the couture and the women's ready-to-wear; it explicitly took in Haute Fourrure and ready-to-wear furs, a whole arm of the house organised around the stuff. The collar engulfing the model's neck is the maison doing one of the things it was literally structured to do. In 1992 that read as plain luxury rather than provocation, and that alone dates the picture about as firmly as the styling does.

His method was consistent enough to describe like a building code. Take one structural element, usually a crisp white shirt or a built-up collar, fix its proportions before anything else, and let the rest of the garment hang off that decision. I've written before about his couture from the same year, the Palladio collection he showed that January, where the architecture training finally stopped being a biographical footnote and became the actual subject. The fall-winter ready-to-wear was the quieter cousin of that work. There was a white and red striped silk organza blouse topped with oversized gold buttons, a run of bead-embellished suits that married embroidery to sharp tailoring, coats with shoulders built out like cornices. Same proportional thinking, cut to be worn rather than photographed once and filed away.

Ready-to-wear is also where the house actually earned its keep, which is easy to forget when the couture gets all the retrospectives. Arnault hadn't bought Dior to win over critics; he'd bought it to build a luxury business, and a collection like this one was the part of the operation that turned the name on the label into revenue. The fall-winter 1992 line had to be sober enough to sell and distinctive enough to photograph, and Ferré's instinct for structure suited that double demand precisely. The drama in the picture is real, but it's drama you could picture someone buying and wearing to dinner, which is more or less the whole point of prêt-à-porter.

Almost none of this survives in the popular memory of the house. Ferré gave Dior fifteen couture collections across seven years, and most people who follow fashion closely couldn't name one. He sits in the gap between Bohan's long, stable tenure and John Galliano, who turned up in 1996 and remade the runway as theatre: supermodels in the Orangerie at Versailles, narrative, scenography, the front pages. Galliano's spectacle is what "Dior in the nineties" means to most people now. Ferré's version, structured and grave and a touch austere, got written out almost completely. His final show, the Indian Passion Indienne in July 1996, went up barely three months before the Galliano announcement, and he didn't yet know it was the end.

Then there are the women who walked these shows. Ferré's Dior runway drew the entire pantheon: Carla Bruni, Linda Evangelista, Helena Christensen, Stephanie Seymour, Kristen McMenamy. I can't tell you who the model in this particular frame is, which would once have been an embarrassing admission and now barely registers.† These were faces you were supposed to recognise on sight, women with enough leverage that in 1990 Linda Evangelista could tell Vogue she didn't wake up for less than ten thousand dollars a day, and the line got repeated as a boast rather than a scandal. The power came from scarcity. There were maybe a dozen of them, the magazines and the houses broadly agreed on who counted, and a designer could put a name to a face and sell a whole season on it. That arrangement is gone. The contracts shortened, the covers fragmented, the small closed circle that used to decide got taken apart, and casting now moves through people too fast for any one of them to harden into a legend the way Evangelista or Bruni did.

The picture stays open in a tab while I write this. Whoever she is, she walked Ferré's autumn once, in Paris, in 1992, and no caption I can find bothered to write her name down.

Amendment, 27 June 2026. She has since been identified as Helena Barquilla, the Spanish model who walked this Christian Dior show. ↩

Two weeks ago an export-control letter pulled Anthropic's Fable 5 and Mythos 5 offline for the entire planet in a single afternoon. This week OpenAI got the polite version of the same power. Sam Altman told staff that GPT-5.6 won't ship the way its predecessors did. It goes out first as a limited preview to a short list of partners, and during that window the government approves access customer by customer.

So the administration didn't reach for the off switch this time. It reached for a guest list. The Verge called it a more favorable deal than the one Washington handed Anthropic, and that's true on its face. Nobody's product vanished. No foreign-national ban forced a global shutdown just to stay compliant. OpenAI seems to have walked into the arrangement willingly, having spent weeks working with the Office of the National Cyber Director and the Office of Science and Technology Policy on the rollout before the request ever arrived.

The safety argument underneath it isn't stupid, which is what makes this hard. Both OpenAI and the administration reportedly judge GPT-5.6 to be on par with Mythos, the model that started this whole mess. If a system really sits at that level of capability, shipping it to everyone on day one is the reckless option, not the brave one. A vetting period, a small group of trusted users while you watch for trouble, is the kind of staged caution frontier-safety researchers were asking for long before any government got involved. Judge the staggered launch on its own and it looks more like responsibility than overreach.

The precedent is a different animal. The caution isn't the problem; the mechanism doing the cautioning is. Access decided one customer at a time, by the executive, on security judgements it never has to publish, with no statute written down anywhere. Axios noted this is the first time Washington has preemptively told an American company to hold back a launch, and that "first time" is the whole story. It's the same discretionary power that darkened Fable, used with a lighter hand. The lighter hand is what makes it dangerous. A shutdown provokes lawyers and headlines; a favor provokes gratitude, and gratitude is far easier to extend.

I called the last version of this a license nobody wrote, and that's exactly what arrived, only now the company is holding the door open. Altman told staff this isn't OpenAI's preferred long-term model. I believe him. The trouble is that long-term models are built out of short-term exceptions, and the exception here is that the government now signs off on who gets to use a product before the public ever sees it. Do that twice and it stops being an exception. It becomes the way frontier models ship.

Thirteen days after the Commerce Department ordered it dark, Claude Fable 5 is still nowhere. Send a request to claude-fable-5 and the API hands back an unavailable error. Open claude.ai or Claude Code and a new session quietly routes to Opus 4.8 instead. Anthropic isn't hiding it: its own head of growth says the company isn't serving any Fable or Mythos traffic, with the Fable figure put at exactly zero. Not throttled, not geofenced. Zero.

That isn't an outage. It's a standoff, and the shape of the standoff explains why a model barely two weeks old can't simply be switched back on.

The official line makes it sound trivial. David Sacks, the White House AI adviser, framed the exit cleanly: Anthropic remediates the safety issue, the export control lifts, Fable returns to general release, and the administration wants all of it to happen as soon as possible. Patch the jailbreak, get your model back.

The trouble is what patching concedes. The order followed Amazon's security team flagging a jailbreak in Fable 5 to the White House. If Anthropic ships a fix, it accepts the premise underneath the whole intervention: that Fable carries a uniquely dangerous flaw the other frontier models don't. That premise is exactly what the company has reason to resist, because granting it hands Washington a precedent to darken any future release on the same logic. So the incentives lock. Patch and concede; refuse and stay dark. Either branch leaves the government setting the terms of return.

Watch what's actually moving and you can read the shape of the comeback. Anthropic updated its privacy policy, effective July 8, to start collecting government-issued ID and biometric data. That ID collection is the machinery for a US-only restoration that never needs the export order lifted at all: verify citizenship, serve Americans, keep foreign nationals blocked, comply with the directive on its face. The model comes back for some people by proving who they are, not by the order going away.

Re-release, then, was never a single switch. It's a negotiation with two exits, both of which cost Anthropic something it didn't have to pay on June 9. The return I sketched last week, domestic-first and conditional, is the only kind these two exits produce.

The lever doing all of this was never written as a rule anyone could read in advance, the same unwritten power that took the model down on a Friday evening. A capability that can be revoked by letter and restored only once you've handed over your passport is a different product from the one that launched, whatever the weights say when it comes back.

Eight days into the blackout, the safe move is to refuse a date. Anthropic says it's working to restore access; the administration, speaking through the usual unnamed officials, signals only that the models can come back once its concerns are met. Both lines are built to expire without anyone being caught wrong. Since the ask was for dates, here are mine, with the reasoning attached so you can mark them off against the calendar.

Start with the near term. June 22 and 23 come and go with Fable still dark. The subscription cutoff was always a capacity story, the free window closing and usage credits taking over on the 23rd, but you can't bill credits against a model nobody can reach. So the transition quietly slips and Anthropic says nothing about it, which is the tell that the date moved without a press release.

Now the restart itself. I'll put real weight on Fable returning for US-verified users before July 10, and probably before the July 4 weekend, because both sides want this closed. Anthropic has a public listing ahead and cannot carry "Washington can darken our best product over a weekend" as a live, unresolved fact in front of bankers. The administration has made its point and gains little from a prolonged siege of a company it would rather keep onside. The standoff that The New Stack summed up as "the ball is in Anthropic's court" resolves the way these usually do: a phone call, a vague joint line about cooperation, the model back up.

It comes back diminished. Foreign-national access returns last, or under geofencing that doesn't really work, or not at all on the old terms. New friction ships with it: attestations, the thirty-day pre-release look the executive order already wants.

Why those terms stick is the part worth spelling out. David Sacks has cast the standoff as Anthropic refusing to fix a jailbreak, and that framing does real work whether or not it holds up. It turns a corporate dispute into a compliance failure, and a compliance failure is what lets Washington set the conditions for return instead of leaving them to Anthropic. Whatever comes back will wear those conditions.

So the dates, plainly: nothing before the 22nd, the credit transition fudged, Fable back for American users in early July, full restoration for everyone else slow and conditional or never on the original footing. If I'm wrong, the likelier direction is slower, not faster. An unwritten power has no deadline forcing its hand, which is the whole reason nobody wrote it down.

The one I'd most like to miss on is that last clause. A model that returns on a regulator's terms isn't really the model that launched on June 9. It's the same weights wearing a permission slip, and the permission slip is the part that outlasts this news cycle.

Five days on, Fable 5 is still dark, and the shutdown itself has stopped being the interesting part. Anthropic is calling the whole episode a misunderstanding and says it's working to restore access. The administration, speaking as usual through unnamed officials, has floated the idea that its "national security apparatus" might be hardened against the supposed threat within a few weeks. Put those together and the safe prediction writes itself: Fable comes back, probably soon, probably quietly. So let me make a more useful one. The terms it returns on matter far more than the date.

Fortune called what happened a licensing regime by another name, and I think that's exactly right. Export control was meant to be a blunt yes-or-no on whether a technology may leave the country. What the Commerce Department actually showed off was a discretionary dial, turned in an afternoon on evidence it never had to publish. A power like that doesn't get used once and shelved. The next time Fable, or whatever follows it, ships, it will ship with strings attached: geofencing it can't really enforce, attestations, the thirty-day pre-release sharing the recent executive order already asked for. Nobody will call it a license. It will behave like one.

Even if access flips back on tomorrow, the off switch has been shown to exist and shown to work. Every frontier lab now has to assume a government can reach into a live product and pull it over a weekend, citing a secret it won't show. You can't un-demonstrate that, and the labs will price it in the way companies always price in a regulator they can't predict: by trimming what they ship toward whatever draws the least attention.

The loudest reaction has come from outside America. The EU, which had only just secured access to the more powerful Mythos model after weeks of talks, immediately framed the episode around its need for technological sovereignty. British MPs piled in too, one former security minister arguing that sovereignty now runs on code more than cannons. Expect the sovereign-AI budgets to chase the rhetoric, because nothing focuses a government like watching a tool its hospitals and researchers were using vanish on a foreign capital's say-so. I'm skeptical it moves fast, though. Building a domestic frontier model is a decade-long, capital-soaked project; the directive took an afternoon. That mismatch is the whole problem, and money alone doesn't close it.

There's an irony in the policy that I don't think Washington has fully reckoned with. A directive aimed at denying capability to foreign nationals nudges exactly those users toward models it can't touch. The cheap, capable, open-weight models coming out of China don't have an off switch a US agency can flip. Neither does a model running locally on someone's own hardware, which is precisely the conclusion a lot of developers reached out loud this week. Deny people the controllable option and they drift to the uncontrollable one. That isn't sovereignty for anybody; it's just a worse map of where the capability actually lives.

For Anthropic the irony is sharp. The company spent the spring asking for a coordinated brake on frontier development, and then found out what a brake feels like when somebody else works the pedal. The timing only makes it worse: with a public listing ahead, "the government can switch off our best product over a weekend" is now a sentence that belongs in a risk disclosure. The restoration talks will probably succeed, but they won't fix what's underneath. Anthropic is already suing the same administration over the "supply chain risk" label it was handed in the spring, and one good phone call doesn't undo that.

What I'll be watching is narrow and checkable: whether Fable is back before June 22, whether the "standard part of subscription plans" promise survives contact with an export-control lawyer, and whether anyone in Washington or Brussels writes the rule down instead of running it through letters fired off at 5:21 on a Friday. I don't expect them to. An unwritten power that works in an afternoon is worth far more to the people holding it than a statute they'd have to stand up and defend.

A very beautiful woman walks a Dalmatian down a sunlit street in a black-and-white windowpane blazer, nipped at the waist, over a fine pinstripe shirtdress. The dog matches the check. Above her sits the Jaeger wordmark; below, a line of small type tells American readers to call 1-800-7-Jaeger for their nearest store. That was the March 1992 page in American Vogue, a near perfect specimen of a certain kind of clothes: expensive, correct, and already, even then, faintly behind the times.

To understand why it reads the way it does, you have to go back further than most fashion houses would like you to. Jaeger started in 1884, not as a fashion label but as Dr Jaeger's Sanitary Woollen System Co Ltd. The founder, Lewis Tomalin, had translated the work of a German zoologist, Gustav Jaeger, who argued that wearing animal fibres next to the skin was healthier than cotton. So the brand began as a wellness theory wearing a coat. People bought the long johns; George Bernard Shaw was a fan, and Ernest Shackleton took the wool to the Antarctic. The first Royal Warrant arrived by 1910, the first camel-hair coat in 1919.

The shift from health to fashion came in the late 1920s, when Jaeger started selling coordinated separates you could mix and match. That instinct never left it. The Regent Street flagship opened in 1935, Jean Muir cut her teeth on the Young Jaeger line in the late fifties, and for decades the name carried a settled, twinset-and-pearls respectability: good wool, good tailoring, nothing that frightened the horses.

All of which is the pitch in that plaid blazer and its matching dog: you have arrived somewhere and you intend to stay. The styling is aspirational in the most literal sense, a tidy life on a good street with a well-behaved animal, and the tailoring underwrites it, matched and safe and entirely sure of itself. It is selling permanence and propriety, the same thing the house had pushed in one form or another since the long johns.

Here is the paradox that explains why it looks old now. Clothes built to be timeless date hardest, because timelessness is itself a period style. Every era has its own idea of what "classic" means, and that idea ages exactly like everything else, only with less of a fight. The slightly oversized power blazer, the windowpane check, the safe neutrals all read as 1992 to me now precisely because they were chosen to read as nothing in particular. A garment that takes a risk at least dates to a moment you can love. A garment engineered for good taste dates to a committee.

It did not help that the competition had moved. By the early 1990s Jaeger was losing its grip, and the usual explanation is brutal in its simplicity: the customer base was ageing with the brand, and no younger woman was queuing up to replace her. Meanwhile the European labels that flooded in during the 1980s looked far more current. Escada under Margaretha Ley was selling loud, confident maximalism; MaxMara owned the coat. Next to that, Jaeger's quiet good behaviour started to feel less like restraint and more like absence. The house knew it, picking up a British Fashion Award in 1996 and bringing in Bella Freud to drag the image forward with a miniskirt and a bomber jacket. When a brand has to bolt youth onto itself like that, the youth reads as a costume, and none of it stuck. Jaeger fell into administration in 2020 and was bought by Marks & Spencer the following January for a few million pounds.

I want to be fair to the clothes, though. The camel coat is still a good camel coat, and the wool was genuinely better than almost anything you can buy at the price now. The problem was never quality. It was that Jaeger kept dressing a woman the culture had stopped picturing, and did it beautifully, right up to the end. The Dalmatian, at least, has aged fine.