The vast Laure, meltingly maternal as ever, used often to invite her to pass a day or two at her Asnieries Villa, a country house containing seven spare bedrooms.

But she used to refuse; she was afraid.

Satin, however, swore she was mistaken about it, that gentlemen from Paris swung you in swings and played tonneau with you, and so she promised to come at some future time when it would be possible for her to leave town.
At that time Nana was much tormented by circumstances and not at all festively inclined.

She needed money, and when the Tricon did not want her, which too often happened, she had no notion where to bestow her charms.

Then began a series of wild descents upon the Parisian pavement, plunges into the baser sort of vice, whose votaries prowl in muddy bystreets under the restless flicker of gas lamps.