“Moreover, I’ll tell you the story of your friend and schoolmate.”
“You see....”
“It’s early yet. It’s not more than one o’clock.”
“Very well, we’ll go wherever you say.”
They passed through very nearly the whole city until they came to the Paseo del Gran Capitán.
“What a city this is!” exclaimed Don Gil. “They can’t talk to me about Granada or Seville; for look you, Granada has three aspects: the Alhambra, the Puerta Real, and the Albaicín—three distinct things. Seville is larger than Cordova, but it is already more cosmopolitan—it’s like Madrid. But not so Cordova. Cordova is one and indivisible. Cordova is her own sauce. She is a city.”
From the Paseo del Gran Capitán, they followed Los Tejares, and on the right hand side, Señor Sabadía paused before some little houses that were huddled close to a serrated wall. There were four of them, very small, very white, each with only one story, and all closed up except one, which merely had its door shut.
“Read this placard,” said Don Gil, pointing to a sign in a frame hanging on one side of the door.
Quentin read by the light of the moon:
Patrocinio de la Mata dresses
corpses at all hours of the day
or of the night in which she is
notified, at very regular prices.