The smothered hum of voices grew louder overhead. It stopped suddenly,
and she could only hear Sobrenski's slow, incisive tones. No doubt
they were listening to him as to one inspired while he preached his
gospel of destruction. Arithelli shivered, pressing her hands over her
ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had
bidden her outrage her sex.
She stumbled towards the bed of hay, still warm with the impress of her
own figure, and flung herself upon it face downwards and lay there
whispering to herself over and over again Vardri's name as one whispers
a charm.
Would he forget her one of these days and marry someone else? Had it
been real, anything of this that she had lived through during these
months in Spain? Was she still that same "Arithelli of the Hippodrome"
who had come gaily into Barcelona with her ridiculous dresses and her
belief in herself and her career? She had known an hour of love and
passion, and that had been worth all the rest Emile had always told her
that people were not meant to be happy long _ici-bas_.
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