And she sobbed and accused Clemence of having burnt her on purpose.

The latter who had gone to fetch a very hot iron for the shirt-front consoled her at once by threatening to iron her two ears if she did not leave off.

Then she placed a piece of flannel under the front and slowly passed the iron over it giving the starch time to show up and dry.

The shirt-front became as stiff and as shiny as cardboard.
"By golly!" swore Coupeau, who was treading behind her with the obstinacy of a drunkard.
He raised himself up with a shrill laugh that resembled a pulley in want of grease.

Clemence, leaning heavily over the ironing-table, her wrists bent in, her elbows sticking out and wide apart was bending her neck in a last effort; and all her muscles swelled, her shoulders rose with the slow play of the muscles beating beneath the soft skin, her breasts heaved, wet with perspiration in the rosy shadow of the half open chemise.