No one in the village knew our identity or our story.

And, because I knew that Mother would worry if she were told, I kept from her the fact that our little income was but half of what it had been.

Our wants were few, and if my clothes were no longer made by the best tailors, if they were ready-made and out-of-date and lacked pressing, they were whole, at all events, because Dorinda was a tip-top mender.

In fact, I had forgotten they were out-of-date until the sight of the immaculately garbed young chap in the automobile brought the comparison between us to my mind.
But now, as I sat on the wash-bench, thinking of all this, I looked down at my baggy trousers and faded waistcoat with disgust.

One of the surest signs of the loss of self-respect is a disregard of one's personal appearance.