’ She simpered, and withdrew one hand so that she might smack his fingers playfully. A small voice greeted her, hissing. He changed his mind however, and simply motioned to her to proceed. “There is something which I must say to you. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. . . 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.
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