"There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. 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. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. Do you see why I have hidden the terrible things from you? I chose you because you are my perfect mate. “Allow me.
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