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her feverish energy. He had wanted, so much, when they returned to Bruges, to learn a little more about this strange and elfish wife; he had thought that it would be gay, not entirely to neglect her dancing, because of that they were both incapable, but to rest her for a few weeks after the strain of Milan, talk to her more, love her with all his heart, teach her, perhaps, to love him.

She could not rest.

"Oh, don't, don't ask me to! You know that I must practise to-night, and it's wrong of you to try to stop me!"

"But, Lina, you have worked so hard! You'11 kill yourself!"

"I shall make myself ill if you prevent me from learning all I can."

Sometimes he feit himself a very Frankenstein, creator of something over which he would never have any control. Of love he was convinced that she could know nothing, although she seemed capable of other emotions, gratitude, admiration, jealousy, timidity. She was grateful to him, she admired him as an artist. At last he realized this, and knew that therein lay his hold upon her. But she had, he thought, no love to give him, no love to give to any mortal. All her love was concentrated upon her art. He who had once thought her passionate, now wished with all his heart that he had reason to suppose her capable of such a feeling. And she, who had in the circus days, when her life was aimless, so exasperated Nurdo by her complete submission, now, at the age of seventeen seemed more independent than a woman of iron. Certainly she had no longer need of any man.

Sometimes, to console himself, Rosing reflected:

"She can't at least escape me. She can never escape me while I live. She's my pupil, my artist, my wife— bound to me by every possible contract."

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