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. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. We come out into the world, some of us—” She paused. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. They were just nice.
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