Later, after Miss Ruth had picked out a pair of shoes, I followed our clerk to the desk where she rang up[15] the purchase. The woman was beside herself[16].
“I don’t know who she is,” she said to me while wrapping the shoes, “but she’s a very great lady, isn’t she?”
I assured her that Miss Ruth was as close to royalty as the performing arts allowed in America, and could picture her retelling the experience of waiting on Miss Ruth over and over again.
That daytime costume has figured large in[17] our family’s collective memory. Later in the week, after taking Miss Ruth to speak at a local girls’ school, I invited her home to dinner. I lived with my husband and our 6-year-old son, Michael, in a small apartment with little room for guests. However, I asked Miss Ruth if she’d like to take a rest, given the exertions[18] of the afternoon, and expected her to use our bedroom. I had carefully cleaned it, even putting out the new bedspread[19].
“No,” she replied. “I’ll just rest on the couch.” So she settled herself in our living room, taking enormous care in removing her cape and hat, seating herself, and arranging the long draperies[20] of her skirt across the length of the sofa before slowly sinking back on the pillows. All the time she watched the effect she was having on Michael, who had pulled up his three-legged stool and was looking on.
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