And then, too, he uses too many shirt-collars, and he doesn't know how to blow his nose.

He stuffs handkerchiefs into his pockets, and you find them again like stones." "All the same, he's a good young man," stammers the waddling street cleanser, brandishing her broom-bereaved hands at random, and shaking over her swollen and many-storied boots a skirt weighted round the hem by a coat-of-mail of dry mud.
These confidences with which Mame is in the habit of breaking forth before no matter whom get on my nerves.

I call her with some impatience.

She starts at the command, comes up, and throws me a martyr's glance.
She proceeds with her nose lowered under her black hat with green foliage, hurt that I should thus have summoned her before everybody, and profoundly irritated.

So a persevering malice awakens again in the depths of her, and she mutters, very low, "You spat on the window the other day!" But she cannot resist hooking herself again on to another interlocutor, whose Sunday trousers are planted on the causeway, like two posts, and his blouse as stiff as a lump of iron ore.