“Come, don’t get tiresome,” said Señora Patrocinio.
“If you interrupt me, Sister Patrocinio, I shall refuse to go on,” answered the narrator.
“You are losing the thread of your story. Come to the point, Don Gil, come to the point.”
“Very well, then—I refuse to continue.”
“Go on, man, go on; you’re crankier than a wheat-sifter,” said the old woman.
“Where was I?” murmured Don Gil. “I believe I’ve forgotten.”
“You were telling us what the store contained,” suggested Quentin.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Of drinkables (the archæologist continued), there were all sorts of brandies and refreshing beverages; rossolis, which they call ressolis here; Cazalla, and wild cherry brandy in green jars which some call parrots, and others greenfinches.
The little store in the Calle de la Zapatería soon had customers. Country folk used to go there to take a little nip in the morning; a few servant girls and a great many children used to stop there to buy sweets.