Blood and tears, money and life! Is there any sacrifice too
great for her altar?_"
And she had been both frightened and fascinated.
This was what Anarchism made of men like the cynical Emile. It had
never occurred to her before that even Sobrenski, whom she regarded
solely as a brutal task-master, was himself a living sacrifice.
She drowsed and brooded through the day, and having arrived at Emile's
room and finding it empty, she "prowled," as she herself would have
expressed it, among his few belongings, for she possessed a very
feminine curiosity. Under a pile of loose music she found the portrait
of a little blond woman, beautiful of curve and outline, in a lace robe
that could only have been made in Paris or Vienna.
The picture was signed _Marie Roumanoff_, and on the back was written
"_Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse!_" There were songs too scrawled
with love-messages in Emile's handwriting.
She pored over them with a vivid interest quite unmingled with any
thought of jealousy. Emile always said that no revolutionist ever
wasted time or thought on women.
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