Abruptly, Gerald turned. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated. 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. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away. She thought then that she had shaken off the man of the bulging blue eyes forever, but that night she found he followed her into her dreams. Mr.
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