Besides in the presence of other workmen she would ask for Etienne, and make believe that she had merely called for the youngster.
The factory was somewhere on this end of the Rue Marcadet, but she didn't know exactly where and street numbers were often lacking on those ramshackle buildings separated by vacant lots.

She wouldn't have lived on this street for all the gold in the world.

It was a wide street, but dirty, black with soot from factories, with holes in the pavement and deep ruts filled with stagnant water.

On both sides were rows of sheds, workshops with beams and brickwork exposed so that they seemed unfinished, a messy collection of masonry.

Beside them were dubious lodging houses and even more dubious taverns.