She seldom remembered whether she had dined, but always presumed she had, and while she was telling me in all good faith what the meal consisted of, it might be brought in.
When in London I had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she had refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink.

These were flourished before her, and then she would say with a sigh, 'Tell him I am to eat an egg.' But they were not so easily deceived; they waited, pen in hand, until the egg was eaten.
She never 'went for a walk' in her life.

Many long trudges she had as a girl when she carried her father's dinner in a flagon to the country place where he was at work, but to walk with no end save the good of your health seemed a very droll proceeding to her.

In her young days, she was positive, no one had ever gone for a walk, and she never lost the belief that it was an absurdity introduced by a new generation with too much time on their hands.

That they enjoyed it she could not believe; it was merely a form of showing off, and as they passed her window she would remark to herself with blasting satire, 'Ay, Jeames, are you off for your walk ?' and add fervently, 'Rather you than me!' I was one of those who walked, and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she saw me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in preparation for my going.