Deathbed

Around eleven thirty on Sunday mornings, after the interminable church service was finally over, I went straight into the kitchen, which smelt of roast and apple pie and where it was nice and warm and the cat lay purring in front of the stove.
I'd better be careful, this is starting to sound like a historical romance.
Faithful servant? Exactly, our faithful servant Wanne was sitting there radiating serenity.
Starched apron? Yes, that's right, a starched apron and a spotless white bonnet.
Knitting? No, she was darning one of my father's socks. With a darning egg. She let me lick out a mixing bowl and prattled away.
On one of those Sundays she said, "Terrible, isn't it? About Leentje."
"Which Leentje?" "Leentje Buys."
"Oh, her. What happened to her?"
"Reverend crippled her," said Wanne with an almost imperceptible smirk of satisfaction on her face. I looked at her with my mouth open and full of dough.