answered, "Oh, no! warm water will do. I'm used to it." She had sorted
her laundry with several colored pieces to one side. Then, after filling
her tub with four pails of cold water from the tap behind her, she
plunged her pile of whites into it.

"You're used to it?" repeated Madame Boche. "You were a washerwoman in
your native place, weren't you, my dear?"

Gervaise, with her sleeves pushed back, displayed the graceful arms of
a young blonde, as yet scarcely reddened at the elbows, and started
scrubbing her laundry. She spread a shirt out on the narrow rubbing
board which was water-bleached and eroded by years of use. She rubbed
soap into the shirt, turned it over, and soaped the other side. Before
replying to Madame Boche she grasped her beetle and began to pound
away so that her shouted phrases were punctuated with loud and rhythmic
thumps.

"Yes, yes, a washerwoman--When I was ten--That's twelve years ago--We
used to go to the river--It smelt nicer there than it does here--You
should have seen, there was a nook under the trees, with clear running
water--You know, at Plassans--Don't you know Plassans?--It's near
Marseilles."

"How you go at it!" exclaimed Madame Boche, amazed at the strength
of her blows. "You could flatten out a piece of iron with your little
lady-like arms."

The conversation continued in a very high volume. At times, the
concierge, not catching what was said, was obliged to lean forward. All
the linen was beaten, and with a will! Gervaise plunged it into the tub