Stanley. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. 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. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought.
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