Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida paintings

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida paintings
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida paintings She went in. The large arm-chair was upset, and even the Fanal de Rouen lay on the ground, outspread between two pestles. She pushed open the lobby door, and in the middle of the kitchen, amid brown jars full of picked currants, of powdered sugar and lump sugar, of the scales on the table, and of the pans on the fire, she saw all the Homais, small and large, with aprons reaching to their chins, and with forks in their hands. Justin was standing up with bowed head, and the chemist was screaming—
“Who told you to go and fetch it in the Capharnaüm.”
“What is it? What is the matter?”
“What is it?” replied the druggist. “We are making preserves; they are simmering; but they were about to boil over, because there is too much juice, and I ordered another pan. Then he, from indolence, from laziness, went and took, hanging on its nail in my laboratory, the key of the Capharnaüm.”