A carpenter was singing in his work-shop, accompanied by the whining of his plane.

The blacksmith's hammers were ringing rhythmically.
In contrast to the apparent wretched poverty, at nearly every open window appeared the begrimed faces of laughing children.

Women with peaceful faces could be seen bent over their sewing.

The rooms were empty of men who had gone back to work after lunch.

The whole tenement was tranquil except for the sounds from the work-shops below which served as a sort of lullaby that went on, unceasingly, always the same.
The only thing she did not like was the courtyard's dampness.