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” He beamed upon her. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. 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. "Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently. Oh, you must believe me. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. ” He said.
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