"I'm tired of being an errand
boy!"
Sobrenski looked at her, drawing his eyebrows together. Everyone of
the band had a nickname for her, and his own very unpleasant one was
"Deadly Nightshade." Some of the others were "Sapho" and "Becky
Sharp," which latter Emile had also adopted as being particularly
appropriate.
"Oh, very well," he answered. "Shall it be the messages or a bullet?
You can take your choice. Perhaps you would prefer the latter. It
makes no difference to me. This comes of employing women. When
Poleski brought you here first I was opposed to having you. Women
always give trouble."
"Would you have got a man to do half the work I do?" she flashed out
with desperate courage.
"Then _do_ your work and don't talk about it," retorted Sobrenski
sharply. "If you are absolutely ill and in bed, of course we can't
expect you to go to various places, but as long as you can ride every
night at the Hippodrome, you can certainly carry messages."
He turned his back on her and took up some papers from the table, and
Arithelli went out, beaten and raging.
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