I don't remember. It didn't
hurt at the time."
"H'm!" commented Emile. "But this?" he touched her wrist lightly. "It
looks like--"
"That? Oh, Sobrenski did that. He--"
"Well?" said Emile. He waited but there came no answer, so he
continued the interrogation. "You didn't make a scene, Fatalite?"
He heard her flinch and draw in her breath as she covered her face with
her free hand. Her low painful sobbing reminded him of the
inarticulate moaning of an animal.
Even in her grief, her abandonment, she was unlike all other women.
Emile stood beside her in watchful silence, and neither attempted to
interfere nor to console her. He was wise enough to know that to a
highly strung nature like hers too much self-repression might be
dangerous, and he was humane enough to be glad that she had the relief
of tears.
At length he said quietly, "I didn't know you could cry, Fatalite. I
didn't know you were human enough for that."
She still fought desperately for composure, thrusting a fold of the
torn _velo_ between her teeth. The naked light shone on her bent head,
and on her glittering rope of hair.
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