You can already hear Pascale approaching from down the hall; those elephantine footsteps are unmistakable by now. The door to the hostel room swung open to reveal an enormously fat woman's body obscured by black robes and a white, ceramic mask. 

"I ought to write a letter to the draper again," she whined, sounding desperate to get off of her feet as she slammed the door behind her and locked it. "Damn it all to hell; why must I bother with rotundity, unfitting attire, and never-ending sweat? Any day now, not a single fool will trust a word I say! I am as fat as my sickliest infirm; the only difference is that I walk still! 'Tis over!"

This sort of episode was nothing new for Pascale by now; the stresses of traveling from place to place and curing the sick were driving her mad. Having grown so fat, not as a result of any lack of discipline but through direct contact with the burdening plague, has left her less and less able by the day. Standing before you now, her uniform, sewn and designed to hang loose, was clinging to her like a second skin.