Vandover had worn an old paint-stained pair of blue trousers, fastened with a strap, so that his shirt showed below his vest; he had no collar, and he had allowed his beard to grow, a straggling thin beard, through which one could see the buttons of his shirt, a dirty beard full of the cracker crumbs from the free lunch-counters of cheap saloons; he had on a hat which he had worn when they had known him; but one should see that hat now! It was all true: little by little Vandover had abandoned all interest in his personal appearance.

Of course it was impossible for him to dress well at this time, but he had even lost regard for decency and cleanliness.

He washed himself but rarely.

He had even acquired the habit of sleeping with all his clothes on during the colder nights of the year.
Nothing made any difference.

Gradually his mind grew more and more clouded; he became stupid, sluggish.