In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. Quilt, meanwhile, came down, examined the door, and finding it unfastened, locked it with a bitter imprecation on his brother-janizary's carelessness. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. “Was I not strong enough when you flogged me for leaning over the oubliette? Who tells you these things? The physician, Sebastianus? Am I not sovereign enough to judge what is happening to my own body?\" She demanded. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man.
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