On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My black silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite decent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered presentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking⁠—no speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me, left⁠—I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently to the kitchen.