" Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. ‘What the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow. Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. The wings stopped. 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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