All that part of the church between the choir and the door del Perdon was occupied by this showy and ponderous fabric.

According to their traditional custom all the Toledans gathered to admire--the steps covered with rows of burning lights, the Roman legionaries in alabaster leaning on their lances, and the rich curtain with its innumerable folds that hung from the vaulting down to the platform of the monument.
On the evening of Holy Thursday Gabriel stood considering what was in some sense his work, surrounded by a group of worshippers.

The Cathedral shone with its immaculate whiteness, in spite of the black veils that covered both statues and altars.

The clouds of colour from the lovely rose windows relieved the funereal aspect of the religious ceremony, while from the choir a tenor voice intoned the lamentations of the oriental prophet.
Gabriel felt someone pulling his jacket, and turning, saw the gardener's widow.
"Come, nephew, we have got her here; she is waiting for you in the cloister." Coming out, the Senora Tomasa pointed to a woman sitting crouched on the stone coping of the garden, wrapped in an old cloak, and with the headkerchief drawn down over her eyes.
Gabriel would never have recognised her.

He remembered the pretty smiling face of former years, and he looked almost with horror at the tarnished youth, haggard with prominent cheek-bones, of the face before him.