Note 1 — Chapter I · BREAD-AND-WATER—AND KITCHEN THERETO!
Reading edition
At six o’clock in the morning, black roaring winter or gracious June—out you must turn in this our Convent of the Birch—ay, though you be thrice a princess in your own right. And they would not let you have so much as a drop of warm water in a pottery jar for the foot of your bed (mightily comforting it is to lone women!), nor even suffer you to sleep in your woollen gonelle, which is to say gown, that hath a hood to it, and, being turned head-and-heels, makes an admirable nest for cold great-toes a-nights. I have suffered from cold feet all my days. Indeed, if I had not, perhaps I had been a happier woman.[1]