It was not that. It was the secret conviction that there was harm in
the world from which mere courage could not protect her; it was the
sort of instinct that warns young animals not to eat plants that are
poisonous; it was the maiden intuition of a strange and unknown
danger.
She sat down again disconsolately. It was absurd, of course, and she
could not run away. Where could she go? She had no money, and she
would have to starve or beg before one day was out. She would be
homeless, she would be driven to some house of charity, for a meal and
a place to sleep, or else to sleep out under the sky. That would be
delightful for once. She had always longed to sleep out of doors, to
feel the breeze playing with her feathery hair in the dark, to watch
the constellations turning slowly westwards, to listen to the night
sounds, to the low rhythmical piping of the tree toad, the sorrowful
cry of the little southern owl and the tolling of the hour in a far-
off belfry.
But it might rain. At the idea, Sabina laughed again. It would be very
unpleasant to be caught in a shower while napping on a bench in a
public garden. Besides, if the policemen found her there, an extremely
young lady, extremely well dressed but apparently belonging to no one,
they would in all likelihood ask her name, and she would have to tell
them who she was; and then she would be brought back to Baron
Volterra's house, unless they thought it more prudent to take her to a
lunatic asylum.
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