She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship.
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