Lola refused. Hence more tears.
There were scenes of frantic jealousy, not on account of any human
being, but on account of the horse. If she loved him as much as she
loved that abominable quadruped whose artificial airs and graces made
him sick every time he looked at it, she would accede to his desire.
Besides, he had the husband's right--a powerful privilege in France. She
pointed out that he could only exercise it by declaring her to be his
wife. Relations were strained. They led separate lives. From Marseilles
she went to Genoa, whither he followed her. Eventually he went away in a
temper and never came back. She had not heard from him since, and where
he was at the present moment she had not the faintest idea.
"So you went cheerfully on with your profession?" I remarked.
"I returned to Marseilles, and there I lost my horse Sultan. Then my
father died and left me pretty well off, and I hadn't the heart to train
another animal. So here I am. Ah!"
With one of her lithe movements she rose to her feet, and, flinging out
her arms in a wide gesture, began to walk about the room, stopping here
and there to turn on the light and draw the flaring chintz curtains.
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