It was his childish aim.
She spat on the iron, and a little ball of spit bounded, raced off the dark, glossy surface.

Then, kneeling, she rubbed the iron on the sack lining of the hearthrug vigorously.

She was warm in the ruddy firelight.
Paul loved the way she crouched and put her head on one side.

Her movements were light and quick.

It was always a pleasure to watch her.
Nothing she ever did, no movement she ever made, could have been found fault with by her children.