It was a house of shadows, where the sunshine was filtered down to a guttering night-light strength between the laths of the window-shutters. (89) - Émile Zola

Jean-Louis had never had a day's illness in his life. He was tall and as gnarled as an oak. The sun had baked his skin until it had the colour and toughness and stillness of a tree. With advancing years, he had lost his tongue. He now never spoke, considering such an activity pointless.

The night threatened to end in the unloveliest way. In a corner by themselves, Maria Blond and Léa de Horn had begun squabbling at close quarters, the former accusing the latter of consorting with people of insufficient wealth.

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "she’s been more than an hour in there! When the priests set about cleansing her sins, the choir-boys have to form in line to pass the buckets of filth and empty them in the street!"