And every moment, with rapid action, the fishermen hauled in their lines, hand overhand, throwing the fish to the man who was to clean them and flatten them out.
The Paimpol fleet were scattered over the quiet mirror, animating the desert.

Here and there appeared distant sails, unfurled for mere form's sake, considering there was no breeze.

They were like clear white outlines upon the greys of the horizon.

In this dead calm, fishing off Iceland seemed so easy and tranquil a trade that ladies' yachting was no name for it.
"Jean Francois de Nantes; Jean Francois, Jean Francois!" So they sang, like a couple of children.
Yann little troubled whether or no he was handsome and good-looking.

He was boyish only with Sylvestre, it is true, and sang and joked with no other; on the contrary, he was rather distant with the others and proud and disdainful--very willing though, when his help was required, and always kind and obliging when not irritated.
So the twain went on singing their song, with two others, a few steps off, singing another, a dirge--a clashing of sleepiness, health, and vague melancholy.