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"Yet you have never stopped flinging Taglioni in my face to-night! Never once! What about the others? What about Elssler? Isn't it her turn? And Cerito, and Grisi, and Lucille Grahn, and any one else old enough to be my mother!"

"Lina, I implore you to be calm!"

"And all the time you are living on me, making money out of me, and out of my reputation! And just because for once, for two months in a whole lifetime, I choose to forget that I'm Varsovina and live as other women do, with a lover that I have taken for love, and not for money, you torment me, and pester me, and never give me a moment's peace!"

But all the time that she was sobbing and stammering these incoherent broken words of abuse, she was thinking of Guy's letter to her, that lay hidden in her bedroom. A letter that was crumpled now, and stained with tears, but which she knew by heart. The words of that letter continued to dance like fire before her eyes, even while she stormed at Heinrich. . . .

"My sweet and beautiful darling,

"You know that my uncle is dead and that I can not come back to France. You know, too, without my telling you, that my love for you is so much stronger since we have been separated that sometimes I think it will drive me mad. You must come here to London; you have got to come. If you don't come to me, Lina, there will no longer be any joy in living. I am rich, now; I can do so much for you. It will be just the same, my precious, as though we were really married, and I shall love you and honor you all the days of my life. But if you will not come, I don't think that I have the courage to go on alone . . . you see, Lina, I can think of nothing but you, and your loveliness haunts me day and night. . .