When he was dried he struggled into his shirt.

Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair on end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood warming the garments he was going to put on.

He turned them, he pulled them inside out, he scorched them.
"Goodness, man!" cried Mrs.Morel, "get dressed!" "Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o' water ?" he said.
At last he took off his pit-trousers and donned decent black.

He did all this on the hearthrug, as he would have done if Annie and her familiar friends had been present.
Mrs.Morel turned the bread in the oven.

Then from the red earthenware panchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin.