She did not ask directly for the things that she liked, but manoeuvred with little plots and intrigues to obtain them.

The cook in the Warlock household had neither art nor science at her disposal, but as it happened old Mrs.Warlock lusted after very simple things.

She loved rice-pudding; her heart beat fast in her breast when she thought of the brown crinkly skin of the rich warm milk of a true rice-pudding; also she loved hot buttered toast, very buttery so that it soaked your fingers; also beef-steak pudding with gravy rich and dark and its white covering thick and heavy; she also loved hot and sweet tea and the little cakes that Amy sometimes bought, red and yellow and pink, held in white paper--also plum-pudding, which, alas! only came at Christmastime and wedding-cake, which scarcely ever came at all.
This vice, of which she was almost triumphantly conscious as though it were a proof of her enduring vitality, she clutched eagerly to herself.
She did not wish that any human being should perceive it.

Of her husband she was not afraid--it would never possibly occur to him that food was of importance to any one; Amy might discover what she pleased, she was in strong alliance with her mother and would never betray her.
Her fear was of Martin.

She feared very deeply his influence upon her husband.