Hers was simply not a pew-shaped spine.
I just never had a reason ever to sit in a church, she had told people. She wasn't vehement about it. She just walked around and lived and moved her hands that were pebble-smooth and pebble-small. Work had polished the nails of those hands with a polish you could never buy in a bottle. The touching of children had made them soft, and the raising of children had made them temperately stern, and the loving of a husband had made them gentle.

Powerhouse (1948). - The Golden Apples of the Sun (1953)