The river, that makes of this quarter of Rouen a wretched little Venice, flowed beneath him, between the bridges and the railings, yellow, violet, or blue.

Working men, kneeling on the banks, washed their bare arms in the water.

On poles projecting from the attics, skeins of cotton were drying in the air.

Opposite, beyond the roots spread the pure heaven with the red sun setting.

How pleasant it must be at home! How fresh under the beech-tree! And he expanded his nostrils to breathe in the sweet odours of the country which did not reach him.
He grew thin, his figure became taller, his face took a saddened look that made it nearly interesting.