My hat (which had served me for a night-cap, too) was so crushed and bent, that no old battered handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have been ashamed to vie with it.

My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew, grass, and the Kentish soil on which I had slept--and torn besides--might have frightened the birds from my aunt's garden, as I stood at the gate.

My hair had known no comb or brush since I left London.

My face, neck, and hands, from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a berry-brown.

From head to foot I was powdered almost as white with chalk and dust, as if I had come out of a lime-kiln.