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never, never been in love. As I see you, you're incapable of falling in love. So why worry about these matters?"

"Oh, I'm not worrying," she cried in a sudden rage, "how can I help the way I'm made? I've had everything, as I've told you—success, a husband, lovers, a son—the only objection is that everything has happened to me so quickly that I've experienced all this while I'm too young to have anything to look forward to. Nothing, that is, except being an Ondine, or a Sylphide, for the rest of my life."

"Believe me," he said pompously, "you will be happier if you remain in your world of make-believe."

"But I teil you that I am happy! What an imbecile conversation!"

Yet it seemed that she was attaining a certain reputation as a cocotte. The manager of some important English theaters sounded Heinrich as to the possibilities of a provincial tour in that country. Heinrich replied that Varsovina's terms were a hundred pounds a night.

"You're mistaken as to the object of these negotiations," replied the English manager with a certain cynicism. "I want Varsovina to dance."

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