Revelry was turning to quarreling and fisticuffs.

A big ragged chap roared out, "I'll knock yer to bits; just count yer bones." A large woman had quarreled with a fellow outside a dancing place, and was calling him "dirty blackguard" and "lousy bum," whilst he on his side just muttered under his breath.
Drink seemed to have imparted a fierce desire to indulge in blows, and the passers-by, who were now less numerous, had pale contracted faces.
There was a battle at last; one drunken fellow came down on his back with all four limbs raised in the air, whilst his comrade, thinking he had done for him, ran off with his heavy shoes clattering over the pavement.

Groups of men sang dirty songs and then there would be long silences broken only by hiccoughs or the thud of a drunk falling down.
Gervaise still hobbled about, going up and down, with the idea of walking forever.

At times, she felt drowsy and almost went to sleep, rocked, as it were, by her lame leg; then she looked round her with a start, and noticed she had walked a hundred yards unconsciously.

Her feet were swelling in her ragged shoes.