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I remember in Modjeska's rendition of Frou-frou, when Frou-frou's lover is breaking her heart, and the strain becomes almost unbearable, Modjeska's nervous hands tear her valuable lace handkerchief into bits.
Vronsky had hardly formed the thought that he could perhaps pass on the outer side, when Frou-Frou shifted her pace and began overtaking him on the other side. Frou-Frou's shoulder, beginning by now to be dark with sweat, was even with Gladiator's back. For a few lengths they moved evenly.
He knew that this was Gladiator, but, with the feeling of a man turning away from the sight of another man's open letter, he turned round and went into Frou-Frou's stall. "The horse is here belonging to Mak...Mak...I never can say the name," said the Englishman, over his shoulder, pointing his big finger and dirty nail towards Gladiator's stall. "Mahotin?
Yes, he's my most serious rival," said Vronsky. "If you were riding him," said the Englishman, "I'd bet on you." "Frou-Frou's more nervous; he's stronger," said Vronsky, smiling at the compliment to his riding. "In a steeplechase it all depends on riding and on pluck," said the Englishman.
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