There's a similar room on the other side of the wall, reserved for the ladies. Spinning wheels whirr, cards chafe against wool. Someone begins tuning up a bowed instrument. Not the old-fashioned viol, but (judging from its sound) a violin. Hard to believe, considering where he is. But then the musician begins to play – and instead of a Baroque minuet, it is a weird keening sort of melody – an Irish tune, unless he's mistaken. It's like using watered silk to make grain sacks – the Londoners would laugh until tears ran down their faces. Enoch goes and peers through the doorway to make sure he's not imagining it. Indeed, a girl with carrot-colored hair is playing a violin, entertaining some other women who are spinning and sewing, and the women and the music are as Irish as the day is long.