"Give me your hand at
once."
Arithelli obeyed, holding it out palm upwards.
Emile looked, and ripped out a fiery exclamation. The smooth flesh was
scarred and torn across in several places, and was still bleeding. The
mark of Sobrenski's grip on her wrist had turned from crimson to a dull
discoloured hue.
"It doesn't hurt so very much," she said. "Only I can't bear the sight
of blood. All Jewish people are like that. I can't help it. It makes
me feel queer all over."
She turned her head aside with a shudder. Emile muttered another
expletive, adding:
"Then if you feel like that, don't look."
He told her again to sit down, tore her handkerchief into strips,
soaked them in water from a carafe, and bandaged up the wounds in a
rough but effectual fashion.
She said nothing during the process, but kept her head still turned
away so that he could not see her face.
"Voila!" said Emile. "That will be all right to-morrow. What did they
do to you?"
"I cut my fingers on the window sill when they let me down. There was
a piece of iron or a nail or something.
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