I went slowly towards her, and looked myself over, in horror.
I looked, as the lady had said, like a lunatic. My hair was still
sewn to my head, but had grown or worked loose from its stitches, and stood out in tufts. My face was white but marked, here and there, with spots and scratches and fading bruises. My eyes were swollen—from want of sleep, I suppose—and red at the rims. My face was sharper than ever, my neck like a stick. The tartan gown hung on me like a laundry bag. From beneath its collar there showed the dirty white tips of the fingers of Maud''s old glove, that I still wore next to my heart. You could just make out, on the kid-skin, the marks of my teeth.