The women were horror-struck.

They shuddered and escaped.
"Ah, she's changed; she's changed!" murmured Rose Mignon, who was the last to remain.
She went away; she shut the door.

Nana was left alone with upturned face in the light cast by the candle.

She was fruit of the charnel house, a heap of matter and blood, a shovelful of corrupted flesh thrown down on the pillow.

The pustules had invaded the whole of the face, so that each touched its neighbor.