She was working on it silently and conscientiously, ironing the puffs and insertions.
Nothing was to be heard except the soft thud of irons on the ironing pad.
She was afraid of showing the great pleasure she took in ironing Goujet's shirts.
She could even see her own window while ironing at the laundry by just tilting her head to the side.
Madame Putois, a thin little woman ...