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‘Cover her, men. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. But Darrell averted his head. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. 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. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. He stepped back further. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. In spite of all this, he grew daily better and stronger, and his spirits revived. "Ja," answered Van; "at a minut's nodish.

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