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"Well," she retorted, "you have often saïd to me that to be a great artist one must have at least a drop of Jewish blood."

They went, of course, to South America. He had no longer the strength to resist her. She, who had been when first he knew her so docile, so submissive, to all his wants, seemed every day to develop a stronger, fiercer will, to become every hour less dependent upon himself and upon his wishes. The coryphée was indeed stretching her wings; despite his very orders, before his very eyes, she seemed about to soar away, and he could do nothing to prevent her flight. He cculd only follow—at a distance, for he was tired, and she was very swift.

Once, in Buenos Aires, he broke down completely.

"Lina, you have betrayed me! You don't love me. You have never loved me. You only endured me for what I could teach you. Now that there is nothing left of that, you no longer even like me."

"That's not true. You know that's not true. I have always been fond of you—I always will be fond of you. But if you are talking of love, I must say this to you— you were never in love with me as a woman, but only as a dancer. You were in love with what you hoped that I should become. Well, I have become something, and yet you are not satisfied, so what more can I do? I'm doing all that you wanted of me, and it doesn't seem to please you. Nothing is right. I no longer know how to please you."

"Come back to Europe," he pleaded.

"And cancel these splendid contracts? What makes you ask such a thing? Surely you know that we must consider the future. And when we do get home only think of the people we can engage to write ballets for me."

And she recited a string of brilliant names.

When they went home!

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