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And so on, and so on, for a dozen smudged and scribbled pages.

And she had answered, unable to express herself with his facility:

"My darling,

"I love you so, more than ever, I think. But I can not come to London. I told you why, once, in the forest, and it is difficult to say again in writing. But I can not come. Something beautiful happened when we feil in love. If I came to London, where you are so grand, to live as your mistress, it would not be beautiful any longer, only sordid. I know this very well. And I could not bear that. I would rather never see you again. But I will never stop loving you. Never, never, please believe that. . . . Lina."

Heinrich was still talking. He was explaining, with a rich and velvety eloquence, exactly why Varsovina surpassed in every single respect, every single ballerina, past and present, that he had ever known. Her elevation, her jouettés, her arabesques sur la pointe, her general technical excellence . . .

"Oh, do be quiet," she said suddenly, thinking only of Guy's letters, "you needn't bother to flatter me any more. Really, it isn't worth while. I shall go to Spain—on my terms—I shall dance divinely, I shall make money for both of us, I shall no longer moan about my love-affairs, there will be no more talk of Taglioni's pupil; and that, as f ar as I am concerned, is the beginning and the end of the matter."

And, as she spoke, she tried to stop herself from thinking, with a profound feeling of desolation, that Guy no longer now talked of marrying her, and that already, although they had been parted for so short a time, their first brief, furious ecstasy of love was over and done with

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