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HEN I mention Catherine to outsiders, I call her the housekeeper. No one with a sense of humor could construe her into a "maid." She is of the square-rigged, ponderous type with a much-lamented leaning towards what she calls "fleshiness." Being convinced that early indulgence in porridge conduced to this undesired amplitude, she now eschews all cereals, breakfasting on more substantial substitutes with a preference for bacon. She has a suspicion too, that water makes people fat, and so confines herself to tea and coffee with a liberal allowance of cream, feeling sorry for herself sometimes on account of the privation. She suffers from the misfortune of looking about ten years older than she really is, though relentless time has already brought her along to the shady side of thirty-five. She veers slightly from side to side as she walks, planting her square-toed boot down firmly, as indeed, she has need to.