Manon did not wake very early, and rays of sunlight were thrusting like sword blades through the iron grating when she opened her eyes.
The cellar was warm, and the wire bed surprisingly comfortable, and Manon lay curled up, looking at the yellow light and feeling in no hurry to leave the bed.
“Another fine day,” she said; “I wonder if the man is still asleep.”
She became aware of a thudding sound coming from the back of the house, a sound that associated itself with ideas of work—strenuous work on a frosty morning. Manon felt guilty. She had a vision of Paul warming himself after a night spent with one blanket under a tin roof, and she jumped up and lit the stove. She had decided to give him hot coffee.
When the stove was well alight, she brought a comb and a little mirror out of her
