Old Trudel says it's the best suit he's made in a year.

I'm afraid he'll not make many more suits, old Trudel.
"He's very bad.

When he goes there'll be no tailor--ah, old Trudel will be missed for sure, M'sieu'!" Jo spread the clothes out on the table--a coat, waistcoat, and trousers of fulled cloth, grey and bulky, and smelling of the loom and the tailor's iron.

Charley looked at them interestedly, then glanced at the clothes he had on, the suit that had belonged to him last year--grave-clothes.
He drew himself up as though rousing from a dream.

"Come, Jo, clear out, and you shall have your new habitant in a minute," he said.