In the adjoining compartment, La Grivotte, hitherto stretched out, scarce breathing, like a corpse, had just raised herself up in front of M.Sabathier.She was a tall, slip-shod, singular-looking creature of over thirty, with a round, ravaged face, which her frizzy hair and flaming eyes rendered almost pretty.

She had reached the third stage of phthisis.
"Eh, mademoiselle," she said, addressing herself in a hoarse, indistinct voice to Marie, "how nice it would be if we could only doze off a little.
But it can't be managed; all these wheels keep on whirling round and round in one's head." Then, although it fatigued her to speak, she obstinately went on talking, volunteering particulars about herself.

She was a mattress-maker, and with one of her aunts had long gone from yard to yard at Bercy to comb and sew up mattresses.

And, indeed, it was to the pestilential wool which she had combed in her youth that she ascribed her malady.

For five years she had been making the round of the hospitals of Paris, and she spoke familiarly of all the great doctors.