She carefully dipped caps, shirt-fronts, entire petticoats, and the trimmings of women's drawers into the milky water.
Then she rolled the things up and placed them at the bottom of a square basket, after dipping her hand in a pail and shaking it over the portions of the shirts and drawers which she had not starched.
"This basketful's for you, Madame Putois," she said.

"Look sharp, now! It dries at once, and will want doing all over again in an hour." Madame Putois, a thin little woman of forty-five, was ironing.

Though she was buttoned up in an old chestnut-colored dress, there was not a drop of perspiration to be seen.

She had not even taken her cap off, a black cap trimmed with green ribbons turned partly yellow.

And she stood perfectly upright in front of the ironing-table, which was too high for her, sticking out her elbows, and moving her iron with the jerky evolutions of a puppet.