There is a vast amount of latent gratitude to women lying undeveloped in
the hearts of men, which would come out plentifully, if they only knew
what they did for them. The Doctor was so used to being well dressed,
that he never asked why. That his wig always sat straight and even
around his ample forehead, not facetiously poked to one side, nor
assuming rakish airs, unsuited to clerical dignity, was entirely owing
to Mrs. Katy Scudder. That his best broadcloth coat was not illustrated
with shreds and patches, fluff and dust, and hanging in ungainly
folds, was owing to the same. That his long silk stockings never had a
treacherous stitch allowed to break out into a long running ladder was
due to her watchfulness; and that he wore spotless ruffles on his wrists
or at his bosom was her doing also. The Doctor little thought, while he,
in common with good ministers generally, gently traduced the Scriptural
Martha and insisted on the duty of heavenly abstractedness, how much of
his own leisure for spiritual contemplation was due to the Martha-like
talents of his hostess.
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