" "It is false," cried Mrs. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. Nothing ensued. 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. . Then a roar of hisses. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. “It’s precious unromantic.
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