For a moment, while he paces to and fro in his cage, dragging shapeless and gaping shoes behind him, he speaks to me in a low voice, and close to my face, in gusts.

Brisbille can shout, but not talk; there must be a definite pressure of anger before his resounding huskiness issues from his throat.
Mame comes in.

She sits on a stool to get her breath again, all the while brandishing the twisted key which she clasps to the prayer-book in her hand.

Then she unburdens herself and begins to speak in fits and starts of this key, of the mishap which twisted it, and of all the multiple details which overlap each other in her head.

But the slipshod, gloomy smith's attention is suddenly attracted by the hole which shows the street.
"The lubber!" he roars.
It is Monsieur Fontan who is passing, the wine-merchant and cafe-proprietor.