We even went so far, as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit.
We knew nothing about the matter; he grew more and more shabby-genteel every day.

The buttons dropped off his waistcoat, one by one; then, he buttoned his coat; and when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over--on the other side.

He looked somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so dingy; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, he never appeared without gloves and straps.

He remained in this state for a week or two.
At length, one of the buttons on the back of the coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, and we thought he was dead.
We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disappearance, and as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life.
We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a bridge--whether he really was dead or had only been arrested--when our conjectures were suddenly set at rest by the entry of the man himself.
He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up the centre of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appearance.

It was very odd.