She trundles across the grass, not fast, going by hope (as much as poor sight) that she might not smite the black cat who bats his paw more out of play than of malice but comes away nonetheless with spines teaching regret, or the happy love-hunting hound whose nose bears scars from quills. She, in turn, so small behind her coat, trembles at their approach for causing nothing but pain. She trundles across the grass, not fast, alone.