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 Why has she never written, the cruel, wicked girl? If she has done it out of calculation, then woe to her. She shall not die in sin. I will have my revenge; I will invent the most dreadful torture. How delightful to see her slender body tremble in terror—to see her pleading eyes, yet know no pity.

Yes, to make you suffer, Marie! But afterwards to cover you with kisses, fold you shivering in my arms, and with tenderest kisses sweep away all sorrow from your soul. Or can it be that she has forgotten me? Impossible! No affectionate young girl could forget so soon. No, Marie will never forget. Has she not given herself into my bondage? Have I not taken oath of her every sense, her every thought, that she would be mine, mine to my last hour, mine when and where I would?

Then, why not write to her? Let her hear her master's call and she will come back!

No, and no again! What should I do with her when she came? I don't want her! No, I don't want her!

But why then all these dreams? Away with them. Let the dead be dead. Plant a rose-tree on its grave—and forget.

AM sitting here forgetting. All around me come the sounds of laughter, the shouts of merriment, silly words and fine words of women feasting. My eyes fall on white arms, red lips, and heaving bosoms. There is feasting at my