Its cluster of snowy flowers suggested a corner of a royal garden.

Madame Putois had begun the basket that Gervaise had brought to her filled with towels, wrappers, cuffs and underdrawers.

Augustine was dawdling with the stockings and washcloths, gazing into the air, seemingly fascinated by a large fly that was buzzing around.

Clemence had done thirty-four men's shirts so far that day.
"Always wine, never spirits!" suddenly said the zinc-worker, who felt the necessity of making this declaration.

"Spirits make me drunk, I'll have none of them." Clemence took an iron from the stove with her leather holder in which a piece of sheet iron was inserted, and held it up to her cheek to see how hot it was.