again, and then took it out once more, each article separately, to rub
it over with soap a second time and brush it. With one hand she held
the article firmly on the plank; with the other, which grasped the short
couch-grass brush, she extracted from the linen a dirty lather, which
fell in long drips. Then, in the slight noise caused by the brush, the
two women drew together, and conversed in a more intimate way.

"No, we're not married," resumed Gervaise. "I don't hide it. Lantier
isn't so nice for any one to care to be his wife. If it weren't for the
children! I was fourteen and he was eighteen when we had our first one.
It happened in the usual way, you know how it is. I wasn't happy at
home. Old man Macquart would kick me in the tail whenever he felt like
it, for no reason at all. I had to have some fun outside. We might have
been married, but--I forget why--our parents wouldn't consent."

She shook her hands, which were growing red in the white suds. "The
water's awfully hard in Paris."

Madame Boche was now washing only very slowly. She kept leaving off,
making her work last as long as she could, so as to remain there, to
listen to that story, which her curiosity had been hankering to know for
a fortnight past. Her mouth was half open in the midst of her big, fat
face; her eyes, which were almost at the top of her head, were gleaming.
She was thinking, with the satisfaction of having guessed right.

"That's it, the little one gossips too much. There's been a row."

Then, she observed out loud, "He isn't nice, then?"

"Don't mention it!" replied Gervaise. "He used to behave very well in