It seemed as if a whole village, stiffened with cold and hunger, were buried here.

She had to step over a black gutter--water from the dye-works--which smoked and streaked the whiteness of the snow with its muddy course.

It was the color of her thoughts.

The beautiful light blue and light pink waters had long since flowed away.
Then, whilst ascending the six flights of stairs in the dark, she could not prevent herself from laughing; an ugly laugh which hurt her.

She recalled her ideal of former days: to work quietly, always have bread to eat and a tidy house to sleep in, to bring up her children, not to be beaten and to die in her bed.