She had a toothbrush in her hand, her lips were moist and red, her hair dishevelled.

Her legs were dainty, and the arch of her little feet was accentuated by her high- heeled shoes.
The air in the closed room was heavy with a mixture of odours--soap, face powder, the pungent scent of cologne.
She went out and came back again, warm and soapy, drying her face.
This time she was all fresh and rosy.
He was talking about something, with his legs stretched out a little, sometimes looking at her, sometimes not looking at her.
"You know, the Bernards have not accepted." He glanced at her, then looked down at the carpet and gave a disappointed cluck with his tongue, absorbed in this matter that interested him, while she kept going and coming, showing the lovely curves of her body.
She /was/ lovely.

But her husband went on droning his commonplaces, phrases that meant nothing to her, that were strange to her, and that seemed blasphemous in the room which held her beauty.
She put her garments on, one by one.

Her husband continued in his bestial indifference, and dropped back into his reflections.
She went to the mirror over the mantelpiece with toilet articles spread out before her.

Probably the mirror in the washroom was too small.
While keeping on with her toilet, she spoke as if to herself in a gay, animated, chatty way, because it was still the springtime of the day.
She gave herself careful attention and took much time to groom herself.
But this was an important matter, and the time was not lost.