Her poor wagging head was quite grey; there were any number of grey locks which the wind had disarranged.
Her neck sank into her shoulders and she had become so fat and ugly you might have cried on noticing the change.

He recollected their love, when she was quite rosy, working with her irons, and showing the child-like crease which set such a charming necklace round her throat.

In those times he had watched her for hours, glad just to look at her.

Later on she had come to the forge, and there they had enjoyed themselves whilst he beat the iron, and she stood by watching his hammer dance.

How often at night, with his head buried in his pillow, had he dreamed of holding her in his arms.
Gervaise rose; she had finished.