repugnance, drew back.

"Madame Gaudron's bundle?" said she. "I'll no longer wash for her, I'll
find some excuse. No, I'm not more particular than another. I've handled
some most disgusting linen in my time; but really, that lot I can't
stomach. What can the woman do to get her things into such a state?"

And she requested Clemence to look sharp. But the girl continued her
remarks, thrusting the clothes sullenly about her, with complaints on
the soiled caps she waved like triumphal banners of filth. Meanwhile the
heaps around Gervaise had grown higher. Still seated on the edge of the
stool, she was now disappearing between the petticoats and chemises.
In front of her were the sheets, the table cloths, a veritable mass of
dirtiness.

She seemed even rosier and more languid than usual within this spreading
sea of soiled laundry. She had regained her composure, forgetting Madame
Gaudron's laundry, stirring the various piles of clothing to make sure
there had been no mistake in sorting. Squint-eyed Augustine had just
stuffed the stove so full of coke that its cast-iron sides were bright
red. The sun was shining obliquely on the window; the shop was in a
blaze. Then, Coupeau, whom the great heat intoxicated all the more, was
seized with a sudden fit of tenderness. He advanced towards Gervaise
with open arms and deeply moved.

"You're a good wife," he stammered. "I must kiss you."

But he caught his foot in the garments which barred the way and nearly
fell.

"What a nuisance you are!" said Gervaise without getting angry. "Keep
still, we're nearly done now."

No, he wanted to kiss her. He must do so because he loved her so much.
Whilst he stuttered he tried to get round the heap of petticoats and
stumbled against the pile of chemises; then as he obstinately persisted
his feet caught together and he fell flat, his nose in the midst of the
dish-cloths. Gervaise, beginning to lose her temper pushed him, saying
that he was mixing all the things up. But Clemence and even Madame
Putois maintained that she was wrong. It was very nice of him after all.
He wanted to kiss her. She might very well let herself be kissed.

"You're lucky, you are, Madame Coupeau," said Madame Bijard, whose
drunkard of a husband, a locksmith, was nearly beating her to death each
evening when he came in. "If my old man was like that when he's had a
drop, it would be a real pleasure!"

Gervaise had calmed down and was already regretting her hastiness