“A comb, a knife and fork and spoon,” said Paul. His father had been in the hospital before.
“Goodness knows what sort of state his feet were in,” continued Mrs. Morel, as she combed her long brown hair, that was fine as silk, and was touched now with grey. “He’s very particular to wash himself to the waist, but below he thinks doesn’t matter. But there, I suppose they see plenty like it.”
Paul had laid the table. He cut his mother one or two pieces of very thin bread and butter.
“Here you are,” he said, putting her cup of tea in her place.