Something in
her pose, in the arrangement of her hair, reminded Emile vividly of her
first morning in Barcelona, when he had come in early in the morning to
find her dazed with sleep. He remembered also how she had asked him to
repeat his remarks, and how carelessly nonchalant had been her manner.
"You look like a witch sitting crouched up there, Fatalite," he snapped.
"What's the matter? You don't seem very cheerful."
"I don't feel very cheerful," the girl responded. She spoke with grave
deliberation, and without moving a muscle. Emile grunted and sat down.
"There has been another explosion of bombs on the Rambla," he said. "A
market woman killed and two work people injured--I believe one has since
died. Of course a got-up affair of the Government. They hope by doing
this sort of thing often enough to make the populace take vengeance on
us."
"Then the Anarchists didn't do it?"
"My dear Fatalite, we don't blow up harmless people simply _pour passer
le temps_. I've told you that before, and being inside the movement
yourself you ought to know.
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