Her hands were red and knotty, smelling of soap, and they touched the chinaware with an over-zealous and constraining tenderness as if the plates and dishes had been delicate glass butterflies.

She stood off at a distance from the table making sudden and awkward dabs at it.

When it came to passing the plates, she passed them on the wrong side and remembered herself at the wrong moment with a stammering apology.

In her excess of politeness she kept up a constant murmur as she attended to their wants.

Another fork?
Yes, sir.
She'd get it right away, sir.