He had
also advised her to smoke, saying that it was good for people who had
whims and fancies, but smoking did not appeal to her, and she never
envied the Spanish woman her eternal cigarette.
She felt as if she would like to sleep, sleep for an indefinite period.
She was wearied to death of The Cause, and the Brotherhood, with their
intrigues and plots and interminable cipher messages.
She had been three months in Barcelona, and now fully justified Emile's
name for her. Tragic as a veritable mask of Fate, she looked ten years
older than the girl he had met on the station platform.
The longer she worked for the Cause the more she realised that Anarchy
was no plaything for spare moments, but a juggling with Life and Death.
At first they had given her but little to do--a few documents to copy,
some cipher messages to carry. Then the demands upon her leisure had
become more frequent. She found she was expected to make no demur at
being sent for miles, and once or twice there had been dreadful
midnight excursions to a hut up in the mountains.
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