Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. She was making it up. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes. But Miss Miniver was highly unsatisfactory. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers.
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