Then he smiled at his idea.
"We might marry and fight the great fight together like the Jenkins
crowd."
"Marry!" she exclaimed--her guttural Russian accent manifested itself
when she became excited--"marry! You are only a baby, Arthur
Schopenhauer Wyartz--_Herrgott_, this child bears _such_ a name!--and
while I am sure the thin Yankee blood of the Jenkins family needed a
Jewish wife, and a Slav, I am not that way of thinking for myself. I am
married to the revolution." Her eyes dwelt with reverence on her new
Christian saints, those Christs of the gutter, who had sacrificed their
lives in the modern arena for the idea of liberty, who were thrown to
the wild beasts and slaughtered by the latter-day pagans of wealth, and
barbarians in purple. He followed her glance. It lashed him to jerky
enthusiasm.
"I am not joking," he earnestly asserted, "so pardon my rashness. Only
believe in my sincerity. I am no anarch on paper. I am devoted to your
cause and to you, Yetta, to my last heart's blood. Do you need my
wealth? It is yours. You can work miracles with millions in America.
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