These beggar girls in Italy are some of the most beguiling creatures I know. Waking early, their hair is twisted by their mothers' twisted hands, over, over, over. Shy, slender, such delicately made young things they are. Long tendrils of feathery hair spiral down their skirts.

They beg as though surprised to find themselves adept at such a task. The well-shaped hand turns palm-up naturally, bent just so. Well understood is the upward glance of innocent astonishment, the downward of wistfulness.

They drink coffee from the train station, bought for them by their doting mothers. Then they all board the train, looking their best, hair in place. Feeling young and warm and loved. So they beg from you almost by mistake. They drank the same coffee that warms your stomach; they woke when you did; they ride the same train. But because their mothers rose early to twist each section of their hair gently into spiraled strands, they have the right to ask for your money.