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“Ass!” he went on, still warming. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. The dress of the dwarfish Jew was not, however, favourable to this expedient. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance.
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