Besides no one could see anything; and she held up her arms, whilst her opulent bosom almost ripped her chemise, and her shoulders were bursting through the straps.
At the rate she was going, Clemence was not likely to have any marrow left in her bones long before she was thirty years old.

Mornings after big parties she was unable to feel the ground she trod upon, and fell asleep over her work, whilst her head and her stomach seemed as though stuffed full of rags.

But she was kept on all the same, for no other workwoman could iron a shirt with her style.

Shirts were her specialty.
"This is mine, isn't it ?" she declared, tapping her bosom.

"And it doesn't bite; it hurts nobody!" "Clemence, put your wrapper on again," said Gervaise.