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lover Nordstrom; Rosing was dead, and it was Nordstrom who was buying her pearls. But Nordstrom was an ugly memory, since it was he who had given her a deformed child, and to forget him she turned wildly toward the young De Beauvais, with his gay parties, his picnics, his women and his flowers. But De Beauvais could not for long exist in her memory; inevitably he was obliterated by the more vivid, vital face of Guy, and then in her delirium she cried aloud, for the world had become dark, and she stretched out her hand for the draft that was to bring her peace, and groping, fumbled, so that there was a great shattering of glass and then she screamed again, and beat her hands upon the pillow, and cried aloud the name of her lover, like one who gives up the ghost.

And then it seemed to her that there came into the room some one bearing a candle, but she was exhausted by her feverish terrors and could cry out no more; she lay exhausted, her face streaming with sweat, and tried in vain to explain how terrible it was that she could not play her shadow dance, her own shadow dance from The Ondine, but her lips were dry, and no sound would come from them. She became aware, vaguely, of a huge face that bent over her; a vast face that loomed gradually nearer, so that she shuddered, and then the face seemed to vanish in a red mist, and everything was black once more, and she was conscious only of a fire that spun and whirled in her brain, but she was too tired, too limp, to make any definite protest against this extraordinary phenomenon, and soon she slipped away into a complete and merciful oblivion of her surroundings. It was as though, Ondinelike, she slid beneath the cool darkness of deep waters, and knew no more.

"Madame! Madame!" Marie cried in alarm, and thrust her candle close to the ghastly pallor of her mistress' face. But Lina only sighed, stared with unseeing eyes, then re-

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