Upstairs in Rosalba's front bedroom, Angela and the bridesmaids were finishing their toilette. They had all rushed to the window when the mayor's motorcar arrived, and then to the top of the stairs when Juanito overturned the spit, but now they were getting down to the serious business of making themselves beautiful. Angela, clad only in a thin silk shift, was brushing her hair with an intense ferocity, as if she were waging war against it.

"What are you doing?" demanded ...