As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. I am altogether a person of a disposition extremely interfering, as you have so often told me. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. I've got the watch-spring saw in my sleeve. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. 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. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. “Always has been,” said Ogilvy. There was the world besides, looming darker and larger.
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