The morning did not look promising; the sky was slack and wet looking. Yet there was a kind of festivity in wrapping sandwiches in waxed paper, in rinsing out the Thermos. A few grains of sand spilled from the straw picnic basket onto the kitchen counter.
Sophie had awakened to hope and intensified alarm. The unlikelihood of the cat’s being rabid had, mysteriously, increased the horror of the possibility that it might be. She moved quickly, packing the food, making an efficient pike of sheepskin-lined coats and gloves, the car blanket, a copy of Out of Africa which she would read to Otto on the way out. It was sure to be colder in Flynders than in the city. In Flynders, there was real weather.
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