Emile found her lying on the bed, her hands clenched by her side, her
proud mouth set in bitter lines. As he came in she turned away from
him, to face the wall.
"_Tiens_!" he observed, "you are a lazy little trollop." Emile was
proud of his English slang.
Finding there was no answer he changed his tone. "Hysterics, eh? They
won't do here. Turn over, I want to talk to you."
The girl moved mechanically, and Emile surveyed her. There were slow
tears forcing themselves under her heavy eyelids.
"I wish I were dead!"
"Probably you will be soon. So will the rest of us."
"What brutes you all are!"
"Because we don't care whether we die to-day or to-morrow? _Souvent
femme varie_! Just now you seemed so anxious,--besides, if one belongs
to the Cause one knows what to expect." Emile strolled towards the
uncomfortable piece of furniture by the window, that purported to be an
armchair, and sat down.
"I loathe the Cause! I didn't belong to it from choice. Why did you
make me join?"
"Because I thought you would be useful.
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