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 again presented itself to his eyes, which were blinded by the light of day. The Princess had grown deathly pale, and bit her lips with her sharp teeth; through the slits of her eyes there flashed a boundless resistance.

“Well?” she said sharply.

“Virginal, unfeeling, libidinous, proud and capable of violent anger—inflammable as tinder—and wicked. You are wicked; you are fiery through your very cruelty, arrogant and heartless; you are wicked and overcharged with excitability; inaccessible, filled with curiosity, hard, hard on yourself, fire and ice, ice and fire”

The Princess nodded silently. “Yes.”

“Of no use to anybody; haughty, incapable of loving, poisoned and burning—ardent, and everything around you leaves you indifferent.”

“I must be severe with myself,” whispered the Princess. “You don’t know” She waved her hand and got up. “Thank you. I will send Paul to you.”

Having thus relieved himself of his personal offended bitterness, Prokop began to think of the Princess more kindly. Finally he became annoyed that she now evidently avoided him. He prepared some friendly phrases to say to her at the first opportunity, but the opportunity did not offer itself.

At the castle there arrived Prince Rohn, known as Mon Oncle Charles, the brother of the late Princess, a refined and polished cosmopolitan, amateur of everything possible, très grand artiste, as they say. He had written a number of historical novels, and