Now her lean hand, lumpy and dark, unroots itself.

She produces a bit of cheese, scrapes it with a knife which she holds by the blade, and swallows it slowly.

By the rays of the lamp, which stands beside us, I see that her face is not dry.

A drop of water has lingered on the cheek that each mouthful protrudes, and glitters there.

Her great mouth works in all directions, and sometimes swallows the remains of tears.
So there we are, in front of our plates, of the salt which is placed on a bit of paper, of my share of jam, which is put into a mustard-pot.
There we are, narrowly close, our foreheads and hands brought together by the light, and for the rest but poorly clothed by the huge gloom.
Sitting in this jaded armchair, my hands on this ill-balanced table,--which, if you lean on one side of it, begins at once to limp,--I feel that I am deeply rooted where I am, in this old room, disordered as an abandoned garden, this worn-out room, where the dust touches you softly.
After we have eaten, our remarks grow rarer.