The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. 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. Had to give up the work and take to this. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry.
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