"Give monsieur a chance to sit down," and she handed Durtal a brimming glass aromatic with the acidulous perfume of genuine cider.
In response to his compliments she told him that the cider came from Brittany and was made by relatives of hers at Landevennec, her and Carhaix's native village.
She was delighted when Durtal affirmed that long ago he had spent a day in Landevennec.
"Why, then we know each other already!" she said, shaking hands with him again.
The room was heated to suffocation by a stove whose pipe zigzagged over to the window and out through a sheet-iron square nailed to the sash in place of one of the panes.

Carhaix and his good wife, with her honest, weak face and frank, kind eyes, were the most restful of people.

Durtal, made drowsy by the warmth and the quiet domesticity, let his thoughts wander.

He said to himself, "If I had a place like this, above the roofs of Paris, I would fix it up and make of it a real haven of refuge.

Here, in the clouds, alone and aloof, I would work away on my book and take my time about it, years perhaps.