He is some one washed away.

You do not see him, so much as smell him.
Other women are there.

Many a Sunday have I, too, joined in all that love-making.
* * * * * * Among these beings who chat and take hold of each other, an isolated woman stands like a post, and makes an empty space around her.
It is Louise Verte.

She is fearfully ugly, and she was too virtuous formerly, at a time when, so they say, she need not have been.

She regrets this, and relates it without shame, in order to be revenged on virtue.