Both of the Lorilleux had already gone back to their work at the far end of their dark hole of a work-room.

Madame Lorilleux, her skin reflecting the red glow from the bed of coals, was drawing on another wire.

Each effort swelling her neck and making the strained muscles stand out like taut cords.

Her husband, hunched over beneath the greenish gleam of the globe was starting another length of chain, twisting each link with his pliers, pressing it on one side, inserting it into the next link above, opening it again with the pointed tool, continuously, mechanically, not wasting a motion, even to wipe the sweat from his face.
When Gervaise emerged from the corridor on to the landing, she could not help saying, with tears in her eyes: "That doesn't promise much happiness." Coupeau shook his head furiously.

He would get even with Lorilleux for that evening.