As I dressed, someone tapped on the wall.
“Do you know,” said a voice, “there is a man who _lives_ in the Luft
Bad next door? He buries himself up to the armpits in mud and refuses
to believe in the Trinity.”
The umbrellas are the saving grace of the Luft Bad. Now when I go, I
take my husband’s “storm gamp” and sit in a corner, hiding behind it.
Not that I am in the least ashamed of my legs.