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. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. I can’t even make myself care.
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