"You were looking at the house. It's always all let from the top to
the bottom. There are three hundred lodgers, I think. If I had any
furniture, I would have secured a small room. One would be comfortable
here, don't you think so?"

"Yes, one would be comfortable," murmured Gervaise. "In our street at
Plassans there weren't near so many people. Look, that's pretty--that
window up on the fifth floor, with the scarlet runners."

The zinc-worker's obstinate desire made him ask her once more whether
she would or she wouldn't. They could rent a place here as soon as they
found a bed. She hurried out the arched entranceway, asking him not
to start that subject again. There was as much chance of this building
collapsing as there was of her sleeping under the same blanket with him.
Still, when Coupeau left her in front of Madame Fauconnier's shop, he
was allowed to hold her hand for a moment.

For a month the young woman and the zinc-worker were the best of
friends. He admired her courage, when he beheld her half killing herself
with work, keeping her children tidy and clean, and yet finding time at
night to do a little sewing. Often other women were hopelessly messy,
forever nibbling or gadding about, but she wasn't like them at all. She
was much too serious. Then she would laugh, and modestly defend herself.
It was her misfortune that she had not always been good, having been
with a man when only fourteen. Then too, she had often helped her
mother empty a bottle of anisette. But she had learned a few things
from experience. He was wrong to think of her as strong-willed; her will
power was very weak. She had always let herself be pushed into things
because she didn't want to hurt someone's feelings. Her one hope now was
to live among decent people, for living among bad people was like being