The witch with the mummy face began to talk to him, ramblingly of old times; she boasted of the inn's fame in those better days.

Great people in their own coaches stopped there.

An archbishop slept once in the _casa_, a long, long time ago.
The witch with the puffy face seemed to be listening from her stool, motionless, except for the trembling of her head.

The girl (Byrne was certain she was a casual gipsy admitted there for some reason or other) sat on the hearth stone in the glow of the embers.

She hummed a tune to herself, rattling a pair of castanets slightly now and then.