[The washhouse] was an enormous shed with a level ceiling, exposed beams resting on cast-iron pillars, and big clear glass windows. Pallid daylight shone freely through the hot steam hanging in the air like a milky fog. Clouds of vapor rose up here and there and spread out, their bluish haze blotting out what lay beyond. The pace was filled with a clinging dampness, like fine rain, smelling of soap, a stale, dank, persistent smell overpowered at times by the sharper fumes of bleach. Washing tubs lined either side of the central aisle and rows of women stood at them, their sleeves rolled right up to their shoulders, their necks bare their skirts hitched up showing their coloured stockings and heavy laced boots. They were beating away like mad, laughing, leaning back to yell something above the uproar, then bending low over their tubs again, a foul mouthed, coarse ungainly...
-- Narrator (chapter 1)