Once in the street, his heart still swelling with indignation, he went automatically towards the Corso, and almost without noticing it, found himself in Via del Seminario. It was burning noon, parched by a hot east wind. The awning of the shops flapped spitefully against the passers-by. The smell of the pavement was blended with perfume of flowers but also with odours of paint, of drugs, of provisions. Anania's nerves were on edge. He encountered a flock of young priests with floating black cassocks and compared them to crows. He remembered a long ago quarrel with Bustianeddu, and hated Battista Daga who represented the race of vain-glorious and cynical Sardinians. In this mood he rang at the door of Maria Obinu. A tall, pale woman, shabbily dressed in black, came to open. Anania felt sudden dismay. Her greenish eyes seemed familiar. "Signora Obinu?" he asked. "Yes, that is my name," answered the woman, her tones somewhat coarse. "No," thought the youth, "it's not her voice." He went in. Signora Obinu took him across a dark vestibule, then into a small parlour, grey, dreary, badly lighted. His attention was caught by a variety of Sardinian objects, specially the head of a deer and a wild sheepskin nailed to the wall. He thought of his birthplace and felt his doubts reborn. "I want a room. I'm a student, a Sardinian," he said looking at the woman from head to foot. She was about thirty-seven, pallid and thin; her nose sharp, almost transparent. Her thick black hair, still dressed in Sardinian fashion, that is in narrow plaits coiled on the nape of the neck, made her seem almost pretty. "A Sardinian? That's nice!" she answered frankly and with a pleasant smile. "I have no room just now, but if you can wait a fortnight there's an English lady going away." He asked to look at the room. It was in a state of indescribable confusion. The bed was pulled out from the wall, and stood between piles of antique books and other curiosities. There was a folding india-rubber basin which the "Miss" used as a bath, and in it a fragrant branch of cassia. On the window-sill a book lay open. It was poetry, Giovanni Cena's _Madre_ (mother) and Anania was struck by seeing it. He decided to take the room. In the vestibule there was a large ottoman. He said: "Can't I sleep here till the lady leaves? I want to get out of the place I'm in at once. I go to bed late and I get up early----" "But this ante-room is a passage," said the woman. "I know. But I don't mind if you don't," urged Anania. "'_Miss_' goes to bed early, but the other two, her father and Signor Ciri never come in till late." "I really don't mind for a few nights." They returned to the parlour and Anania stood looking at the stuffed head of the deer. "Suppose it is _she_?" he was thinking. His coolness surprised him. He could have borne it even if at that very moment the woman had revealed herself. At bottom, however, he was deeply moved. He continued his investigations.