Grantaire stumbled from bed in his usual morning fog. From somewhere on the floor he groped underneath the frame, and was eventually rewarded with a pair of boots.
They were, he was certain, a man's boots. But it was also apparent that their owner possessed taste surpassing his, not to mention care. They were not Grantaire's boots. Too new, too clean, and, now that he gave them a thorough (if clumsy) inspection, too small.
At the same time that he discovered his own boots cast into a corner, he realized that the room in which he sat was as poor a match for himself as had been the footwear. A moment later he heard the door open, and he began to feel anxious.