They did harm to
the serious aims and intentions of the Anarchist community, and were
often the means of getting quite the wrong people arrested.
At the Flower Market (La Rambla de las Flores) he paused to look at the
heaped roses, gorgeous against the grey stones. Daily they were
brought there in thousands, dew-drenched and fresh from the gardens of
Saria. He took up a loose handful from the piled mass of sweetness and
laid it down again.
Red roses were not for Fatalite. They would not suit her, and she had
good reason to loathe the colour that was symbolical of blood and
sacrifice. He chose instead a sheaf of lilies, long-stalked and
heavily scented, and despatched them in the care of a picturesque
_gamin_. Sobrenski and the others would certainly have considered him
hopelessly mad if they had known. It was many years since he had sent
flowers to a woman. His present life did not encourage little
courtesies and graceful actions. It was in the natural course of
events that all the comrades should help one another in every possible
way, but none of them made any virtue out of it.
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