[I deleted words when I couldn't figure out the meaning. I also put "sheepskin coat" in lower case instead of capitalizing. You may have capitalized them for literary reasons.] There was a sheepskin coat. A simple sheepskin coat, not very new, but not patched, somewhat frayed, and impregnated with the smell of human sweat. Its decorative trimmings had long since faded that once gave him ["it" is better, unless you're foreshadowing its personification later] the character of a typical Pokuttia sheepskin coat. In short, it was a regular, everyday, unsightly sheepskin coat; not interesting for an amateur ethnographer, and at first glance, without any right to be proud. Yet he was very proud. In conversations with himself, in the darkness, hanging on clothes-peg over the host’s bed, he boasted, "Who is it," he thought, "which sheepskin coat, which fur, which priest’s vestment has more right to dignity and respect than I? "However, we bow and scrape and show humility before a chasuble [a fancy vestment], but that doesn’t mean anything! It's all about the human eye! For in truth, what are their merits? One coat just costs more than the other. "Can they compare with me, a simple, poor sheepskin coat, whose natural warmth can heat a whole family?"