tea-gowned

She wears her black silk every day, a trailin’ on the ground, / Leastwise, a trailin’ on the floor; ’tis called I b’lieve, tea-gowned, / An’ frills an’ lace, ’an hot-house flowers, such waste, it worried me, / Rememberin’ Jotham Peckham’s kin, as poor as poor could be.