More than all else, Dormy Jamaas was clean.

His clothes were mostly rags, but they were comely, compact rags.

When he washed them no one seemed to know, but no languid young gentleman lounging where the sun was warmest in the Vier Marchi was better laundered.
As Carterette turned round to him he was twirling a cake on the wooden fork, and trolling: "Caderoussel he has a coat, All lined with paper brown; And only when it freezes hard He wears it in the town.
What do you think of Caderoussel?
Ah, then, but list to me: Caderoussel is a bon e'fant--" "Come, come, dirty-fingers," she said.

"Leave my work alone, and stop your chatter." The daft one held up his fingers, but to do so had to thrust a cake into his mouth.
"They're as clean as a ha'pendy," he said, mumbling through the cake.
Then he emptied his mouth of it, and was about to place it with the others.
"Black beganne," she cried; "how dare you! V'la--into your pocket with it!" He did as he was bid, humming to himself again: "M'sieu' de la Palisse is dead, Dead of a maladie; Quart' of an hour before his death He could breathe like you and mel Ah bah, the poor M'sieu' De la Palisse is dead!" "Shut up! Man doux d'la vie, you chatter like a monkey!" "That poor Maitre Ranulph," said Dormy, "once he was lively as a basket of mice; but now--" "Well, now, achocre ?" she said irritably, stamping her foot.
"Now the cat's out of the bag--oui-gia!" "You're as cunning as a Norman--you've got things in your noddee!" she cried with angry impatience.
He nodded, grinning.

"As thick as haws," he answered.
She heard behind her a laugh of foolish good-nature, which made her angry too, for it seemed to be making fun of her.