At the hour when the lights were usually extinguished in the Claverias and Don Antolin locked the street door, Gabriel and his friends glided cautiously to the bell-ringer's "habitacion." Sagrario was also persuaded to come by her uncle, who in this way managed to tear her from her machine.

She really must enjoy some little amusement; she ought to appear in the world now and then; she was killing herself with all that tiresome work.
They all sat in the gallery.

The shoemaker had brought his wife, always with a small baby at her flabby breast.

The Tato was talking delightedly to the organ-blower and the verger about the bull-fight on the following day, and Mariano stood by his adored comrade, while his wife, a woman as rough as himself, spoke with Sagrario.
The men were deploring the absence of Don Martin.

Probably he had gone down below among the people who filled the square, doubtless dreading that he must be up before daybreak to say mass to the nuns.
The palace of the Ayuntamiento was decorated with strings of light, which were reflected on to the facade of the Cathedral, giving the stones a rosy flush as of fire.
Among the trees walked groups of girls with flowers and white blouses, like the first appearances of spring.