‘Parbleu, but I find that this is excessively clever, this passage. Wild's busy. 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 felt his tongue press into her mouth. I begin to fear I might be purposely go out of the way. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. ’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace.
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