breath. Then he began to giggle because her bare shoulders were right
under his nose. He thought maybe he could see more. Clemence, having
folded over the back of the shirt and ironed it on both sides, was now
working on the cuffs and collar. However, as he was shoving against her,
he caused her to make a wrinkle, obliging her to reach for the brush
soaking in the soup plate to smooth it out.

"Madame," said she, "do make him leave off bothering me."

"Leave her alone; it's stupid of you to go on like that," quietly
observed Gervaise. "We're in a hurry, do you hear?"

They were in a hurry, well! What? It was not his fault. He was doing no
harm. He was not touching, he was only looking. Was it no longer allowed
to look at the beautiful things that God had made? All the same, she had
precious fine arms, that artful Clemence! She might exhibit herself for
two sous and nobody would have to regret his money. The girl allowed him
to go on, laughing at these coarse compliments of a drunken man. And she
soon commenced joking with him. He chuffed her about the shirts. So she
was always doing shirts? Why yes, she practically lived in them. _Mon
Dieu!_ She knew them pretty well. Hundreds and hundreds of them had
passed through her hands. Just about every man in the neighborhood
was wearing her handiwork on his body. Her shoulders were shaking with
laughter through all this, but she managed to continue ironing.

"That's the banter!" said she, laughing harder than ever.

That squint-eyed Augustine almost burst, the joke seemed to her so
funny. The others bullied her. There was a brat for you who laughed at
words she ought not to understand! Clemence handed her her iron; the
apprentice finished up the irons on the stockings and the dish-cloths
when they were not hot enough for the starched things. But she took hold
of this one so clumsily that she made herself a cuff in the form of a
long burn on the wrist. And she sobbed and accused Clemence of having
burnt her on purpose. The latter who had gone to fetch a very hot iron
for the shirt-front consoled her at once by threatening to iron her two
ears if she did not leave off. Then she placed a piece of flannel under
the front and slowly passed the iron over it giving the starch time
to show up and dry. The shirt-front became as stiff and as shiny as
cardboard.

"By golly!" swore Coupeau, who was treading behind her with the
obstinacy of a drunkard.

He raised himself up with a s