“It is you alone, Nigel, who have saved me from being an old maid. Her back arched slightly in response. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. “We can,” he said, “and we will. She is not in the least like the descriptions of her. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. 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. Supper was over.
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