"Now, Catherine, I just told them about the camp at Brest."
Catherine looked at her husband, a long, quiet glance. Then she followed Spencer into the kitchen.
"Oh, 'Melia!" The heat from the stove rushed at her. "You built a fire to-night!"
"Yes, I did." Amelia, a small, wiry, faded Maine woman, turned from the table. "That oil stove's acting queer, and anyways, it don't seem as if you could fry fish on it."
"We might eat them raw, then, instead of sweltering." Catherine pushed her sleeves above her elbows, and reached for a knife.
"Now that's a real pretty ketch, ain't it?" Amelia nodded at Spencer, who watched while the flounders were slipped from the cord into the sink.
Catherine cleaned the fish. She left Amelia to fry them while she set the table. The heat from the kitchen crept into the long, low dining room. Then Catherine drew Letty, protesting shrilly, into the bedroom, where she undressed and bathed her. When she had slipped the nightie over the small yellow head, she kissed her. "Now you find Daddy, and I'll have Amelia bring your milk out to the porch."
She called Marian, who came on a run, peeling her jumper over her head.
"Can I put on my white sailor suit to show Daddy, Muvver?" She dragged it from the clothes-press. "Oooh! That's cold water!" She wriggled under Catherine's swift fingers.