What a stench!" said Clemence, holding her nose.
"Of course there is! If it were clean they wouldn't send it to us," quietly explained Gervaise.

"It smells as one would expect it to, that's all! We said fourteen chemises, didn't we, Madame Bijard?
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen--" And she continued counting aloud.

Used to this kind of thing she evinced no disgust.

She thrust her bare pink arms deep into the piles of laundry: shirts yellow with grime, towels stiff from dirty dish water, socks threadbare and eaten away by sweat.

The strong odor which slapped her in the face as she sorted the piles of clothes made her feel drowsy.
She seemed to be intoxicating herself with this stench of humanity as she sat on the edge of a stool, bending far over, smiling vaguely, her eyes slightly misty.