A cold, hard stare catches the eye, no? Especially with such an expression as is present on the face of Miss Ruth, as ironic a name as one could find. Sitting in a static, upright position on a cushion as hard as the look in her slate grey eyes, she regards the world with utmost distain.
Greying red hair is caught up in a bun, soft white skin sags slightly, and it is most obvious she is ageing, though still an astute woman.
Maybe that is the reason that she never married, content to while her days away in the immaculate parlor with like-minded friends calling to sip tea and nibble biscuits. No children run in her parlor, no small footsteps sound in the huge, empty house.
She limps, so slightly, to her large, bare, austere bedroom. She moves little in the company of other people. Moving would show her weakening constitution, and no one could dare think of her as weak.
She fingers a thick string of pearls, and removes it. Off comes her fine linen dress with it's high, tight, starched lace collar, the rouge and the jewels.
Under her proud, severe cover, Miss Ruth is just human.