Almost all of them, if opportunity offered, stole what they could;
they all presented the same pauperized, emaciated look. And all
harboured a constant rage that vented itself in furious imprecations
and blasphemies.
They lived as if sunk in the shades of a deep slumber, unable to form
any clear notion of their lives, without aspirations, aims, projects
or anything.
There were some whom a couple of glasses of wine made drunk for half a
week; others seemed already besotted, without having had a sip, and
their countenances constantly mirrored the most absolute debasement,
whence they escaped only in a fleeting moment of anger or indignation.
Money was to them, more often than not, a misfortune. Possessing an
instinctive understanding of their weakness and their frail wills,
they would resort to the tavern in quest of courage; there they would
cast off all restraint, shout, argue, forget the sorrows of the
moment, feel generous, and when, after having bragged to the top of
their bent they believed themselves ready for anything, they
discovered that they hadn't a centimo and that the illusory strength
imbibed with the alcohol was evaporating.
The women of the house, as a rule, worked harder than the men, and
were almost always disputing. For thirty years past they had all
shared the same character and represented almost the same type: foul,
unkempt, termagacious, they--shrieked and grew desperate upon the
slightest provocation.
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