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. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead.
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