Who dares to come, in filthy rags, into the presence of a tailor? First, Pym went to a barber’s shop—the dirtiest he could find, since he hated to be conspicuous. Then—ragged, but smelling of brilliantine—he bought a white shirt for seven-and-sixpence and a pair of green socks for eighteenpence: one cannot try on even a fifty-shilling suit in a dirty shirt, and who is so lost to decency that he will uncover the nakedness of his toes to a salesman in a shoe shop? Pym put on his new shirt and socks in a public lavatory, leaving the old ones in a neat bundle on top of the cistern. Now he felt better; he could even thank God for his hungry leanness, that made of his shoulders a hanger which any coat might fit. Intoxicated by the caress of clean linen, he walked past the fifty-shilling place and confidently confronted a pushing individual who hung his shop window with autographed portraits of celebrities. The smell of new clothes stung Pym’s nostrils like spice: for one mad moment he lusted after a sportsmanlike double-breasted dog-tooth red-and-grey check suit as worn by the Lightweight Champion.
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