It seemed to her that the rooms were immense and deserted.

Really, it would be a good riddance.

But it was certainly not only mother Coupeau that she had left at the bottom of the hole in the little garden of the Rue Marcadet.

She missed too many things, most likely a part of her life, and her shop, and her pride of being an employer, and other feelings besides, which she had buried on that day.

Yes, the walls were bare, and her heart also; it was a complete clear out, a tumble into the pit.