Peter takes a bath in the office kitchen, even though it has a glass door.
When it's time for his bath, he goes around to each of us in turn and announces that we shouldn't walk past the kitchen for the next half hour.
He considers this measure to be sufficient. Mr. van D. takes his bath upstairs,
figuring that the safety of his own room outweighs the difficulty of having to carry the hot water up all those stairs.
Mrs. van D. has yet to take a bath; she's waiting to see which is the best place.
Father bathes in the private office and Mother in the kitchen behind a fire screen,
while Margot and I have declared the front office to be our bathing grounds.
Since the curtains are drawn on Saturday afternoon, we scrub ourselves in the dark,
while the one who isn't in the bath looks out the window through a chink in the curtains and gazes in wonder at the endlessly amusing people.
A week ago I decided I didn't like this spot and have been on the lookout for more comfortable bathing quarters.
It was Peter who gave me the idea of setting my washtub in the spacious office bathroom.
I can sit down, turn on the light, lock the door, pour out the water without anyone's help, and all without the fear of being seen.
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