"Will you let us in, confound you!"
The man appeared to be frightened, and muttered: "'Arf a mo' till I gits into me breeches."
He came and undid the bolts.... A bent old peasant, carrying a candle in his hand.
"'Ello, on'y three of you! Might 'a bin fifty by the shindy you kicked up!"
He seemed to me to regret having given in so easily. We went into a low room.
"Well now," said Guillaumin, "What can you give us to eat?"
The old peasant looked us up and down. I could read in his face the mistrust and avarice of bad breeds.
"'Aven't I told you there's nothin'?"
Guillaumin shrugged his shoulders.
"What do you live on? Air?"