“What is it?” asks the sister.

I cast a glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has got the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy.

“Can’t you get in by yourself?” asks the sister gently.

“Why yes,” I say in a sweat, “but take off the bed cover first.”

“What for?”

I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?⁠—“It will get⁠—” I hesitate.

“A little bit dirty?” she suggests helpfully. “That doesn’t matter, we will wash it again afterwards.”

“No, no, not that⁠—” I say excitedly. I am not equal to such overwhelming refinement.