The street cries had begun to swell into a volume of sound,
and at the earliest dawn the whole place teemed with stir and life.
There was no hour in all the night in which Barcelona really slept.
Some of the shops did not close before midnight, and people were
continually passing through the Rambla, and entering and leaving the
_posadas_, which were open for the sale of wine and bread soon after
three o'clock in the morning.
Emile yawned and stretched, and pulled himself up slowly from the chair
by the open window in which he had fallen asleep. He was cramped and
stiff from his uncomfortable position. Anxiety and strain had deepened
the lines on his face, and his eyes were dull and sunken. He looked
less hard, less alert, and altogether more human and approachable.
A glance at the bed assured him that Arithelli was still asleep and in
exactly the same attitude as he had left her. Though her sleep was not
a natural one, at least it was better than drugs, and he had given her
a respite, a time of forgetfulness. In a few minutes he would have to
arouse her again to more pain and discomfort, and the inevitable
weariness of convalescence.
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