His bravado waxed and he asked her to what would be her first date in nearly twenty years. Besides, he might hear things. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. 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. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past.
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