And as Boche said he preferred the little onions when they were nicely broiled, Madame Lerat screwed up her lips, and murmured: "I can understand that." She was a dried up stick, living the cloistered life of a hard-working woman imprisoned within her daily routine, who had never had a man stick his nose into her room since the death of her husband; yet she had an obsession with double meanings and indecent allusions that were sometimes so far off the mark that only she understood them.
As Boche leaned toward her and, in a whisper, asked for an explanation, she resumed: "Little onions, why of course.

That's quite enough, I think." The general conversation was becoming grave.

Each one was talking of his trade.

Monsieur Madinier raved about the cardboard business.

There were some real artists.