Ghisola wasn't well-behaved like she used to be. Wilful and headstrong she wanted to go her own way.

Every Sunday after dinner she slipped out and wasn't seen again till dark. Granny went in search of her on the farms but she'd been mooching about Siena, in the streets, receiving obscene compliments and propositions. One or two of the fellows recognized her and followed to stop and talk. She smiled, flattered and rather bewildered, cause they weren't country lads, they were smart young workmen. When she arrived at the Porta Camollia she had to be sharp or the tollhouse guards would mill round and block her way through.

And when she was wearing a flower she hadn't to walk along the wall as some of the shopmen standing at their doors would stretch out their hands to snatch it.

When she came home, to avoid being grumbled at, she climbed in through the bedroom window, hanging onto the supports of the hen-house. She undressed and got into bed supperless, maddened by the clatter Giacco and Masa made dipping their brass spoons in the tureen. Whenever the spoons clashed Giacco caught Masa's eye.

In the end Granny realized she was in and thinking she'd been taken unwell brought her a piece of bread on the quiet but before giving it to her boxed her ears with it.

Ghisola chewed, her head turned to the wall, surprised the bread was wet ...