“Are you going to continue your walk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“We shall go with you if we won’t be in your way.”
“Come by all means.”
Together the trio began to wander through that puzzling entanglement of alleys. The barrio, or district into which they penetrated (the vicinity of El Potro), was beginning to come to life. A few old women with sour-looking faces, some with mantles of Antequera baize, others with black mantillas, were on their way to mass, carrying folding chairs under their arms.
“Dueñas, eh?” said the Frenchman, pointing his finger at the old women. “But their ladies, where are they now?”
“Probably snoring at their ease,” replied Quentin.
“But, do they snore?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“Snore? What is that?” Madame Matignon inquired of her husband in French.