She rubbed it on her brick, wiped it on a piece of rag hanging from her waist-band and started on her thirty-fifth shirt, first of all ironing the shoulders and the sleeves.
"Bah! Monsieur Coupeau," said she after a minute or two, "a little glass of brandy isn't bad.

It sets me going.

Besides, the sooner you're merry, the jollier it is.

Oh! I don't make any mistake; I know that I shan't make old bones." "What a nuisance you are with your funeral ideas!" interrupted Madame Putois who did not like hearing people talk of anything sad.
Coupeau had arisen and was becoming angry thinking that he had been accused of drinking brandy.

He swore on his own head and on the heads of his wife and child that there was not a drop of brandy in his veins.