Careless maids trembled before her tirades, and strong men shook in their shoes under her biting phrases.
At seventy, with her snowy hair, little face that had gone into as many lines as a dried pippin, bent, fragile body and tiny hands twisted by rheumatism, she looked like one of the old women in a Grimm's fairy tale who frightened children and scared animals and turned giants into cowards.
She drew up in front of the frustrated girl, stretched out her white hand lined with blue veins and began to tap her on the shoulder--announcing in that irritating manner that she had a complaint to make.
"My dear," she said, "when you write letters to your little friends or your sentimental mother, bear in mind that the place for ink is on the note paper and not on the carpet." "Yes, Grandmother." "Try to remember also that if you put your hand behind a candle you can blow it out without scattering hot grease on the wall paper." "Yes, Grandmother" "There is one other thing, if I may have your patience.

You are not required to be a Columbus to discover that there is a basket for soiled linen in your bedroom.

It is a large one and eager to fulfill its function.

The floor of your clothes closet is intended for your shoes only.

Will you be so good as to make a note of these things ?" "Yes, Grandmother." Ink, candle grease, wash basket--what did they matter in the scheme of life, with spring tapping at the window?
With a huge effort Joan forced back a wild burst of insurrection, and remained standing in what she hoped was the correct attitude of a properly repentant child.