The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. But she was not to be tempted. “I wish you would come and see my lawyers. Jack Kimble.
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