“I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. 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. You shall have room to develop, you shall live as you will, where you will, only give me the right to protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares.
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