The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders.

Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders.
After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to drink.

He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him.

So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses, carried hers to her mouth.

As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain.